Through Bitter Chains
by Rhysenn
Summary: *NEW CHAPTER 6 ADDED!* [Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas] An Elvish slave learns much about the ways of Men -- who, above all else, desire power.
1. Chapter One

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter One  
by Rhysenn **   
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: An Elvish slave learns much about the ways of Men — who, above all else, desire power.   
  
Story Notes:  
This is a multi-chaptered, semi-AU story.   


The One Ring remains lost, perhaps even forever. Sauron lies dormant, unable to return whilst his Ring of Power is hidden from him, although the whisper of his formless malice creeps across Middle-earth like an insidious shadow. There is discord and suspicion among the different folk of the land, and through the passage of time, they have grown apart instead of being united. The races of Elves and Men have long been sundered, and have had no dealings with each other for many years.

Minas Tirith is the capital of the lands of Anórien, of the divided realm of Gondor; it is a flourishing city, wealthy and of much profitable yield; but its people have fallen into greed and selfishness, forsaking the nobler ways their forefathers had lived by. Decadence, rivalry, pride and covetousness; sexuality is about rough passions and obsessive power plays. But yet, amidst corrupting desire there still lives in some the rare, pure spirit of the elder days.

Central Characters:

**Boromir** has claimed the title of King of Anórien, ever since the kingdom of Gondor had disintegrated into several smaller states due to internal strife and civil conflict.  
**Faramir**, his younger brother, is Prince of the city.  
**Aragorn**, born of true yet forsaken royalty, has returned to Minas Tirith after his wanderings in the wild; he now serves as chief steward of Boromir's household. *  
**Gandalf**, Aragorn's trusted friend and counsellor; he is the only other who knows that Aragorn is the true royal heir, biding his time to reclaim his birthright and reunite the scattered peoples of Gondor to their former glory.  
**Legolas**, an Elf of Mirkwood; a prize of great value, as this story shall tell. 

  


* The premise in this story that Aragorn lives in Minas Tirith serving as steward of the house is based on the canon fact in The Lord of the Rings, _Appendix A: 'The Stewards'_ — that Aragorn did indeed return to Gondor, although his true identity remained concealed; he went under the name of Thorongil, and served as a great captain of Ecthelion II. 

  
Many thanks to Megan and Tyellas, my wonderful beta readers for this series.   
  
For discussion of this story and notification of chapter updates, join the **bitter_chains** yahoogroup. (http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bitter_chains)  
This group will get new chapters of TBC exclusively for 24 hours before they are uploaded anywhere else.  
  
  


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Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter One**

  
  


Once a year, the hunters would stop along their route at Minas Tirith, and this was a much-anticipated arrival. They would often bring exotic and strange wares pillaged from far lands: from curiously-fragrant pipe-weed to silver-gold leaves that would never wither, perfect adornment upon the finest of garments — and, on occasion, live goods they would also bear. As indeed on this occasion. 

Though the peoples of Minas Tirith transacted with these hunters from afar, they never quite welcomed them. Perhaps an old suspicion lingered in their minds, their better senses warning them against frequent dealings with such rough, uncultured folk. For although these strangers fashioned themselves as 'hunters,' in truth they were not of the revered Dúnedain of the North, whose rare kind seemed to have disappeared, percolated into the very land that they knew so well. 

No, these swarthy men were kin to the Easterlings, dangerous and treacherous. Even though the folk of Anórien conducted business with them for reasons of profitable trade, they still far from trusted them; thus the hunters would not linger long, and in the brief period they stayed, both parties would gain some form of commercial benefit. 

For Minas Tirith was rich, yet secluded from the other realms of Middle-earth; journeys from place to place were avoided, since marauding bands often lurked along the high roads, and it was no longer possible to travel the lands and hope for a hospitable reception in foreign parts. Middle-earth was divided, fragmented into many states and territories each distrustful of the other, and folk were content to roam within their own boundaries and venture little further; thus, missing out on the wonder and beauty that lived in distant corners of the world.

Today, however, the people of Minas Tirith did not have to look far beyond their borders to behold wonders from afar. The hunters brought these right to their gates, in full splendour, great things revealed and even greater, yet concealed. 

For this year, amidst the colourful and amazing array of other goods that they had gleaned on their travels, the hunters had a prized possession they wished to sell, for a high price and not to just any bidder on the street. They wanted audience with King Boromir himself to present their offer.

Boromir was mildly suspicious when his court messengers conveyed this to him; he rarely had dealings with these hunters, although he interfered not with his people's choosing to do business with them. It was not to be denied that the hunters often peddled that which was much to be desired in Minas Tirith, and trade in such varied and valuable items increased the status of Anórien among the other independent states in the realm of Gondor.

However, his curiosity was piqued, and Boromir saw no harm in conferring with the hunters. He sent word that he would meet them, as requested; and shortly after noon he left his palace to descend to the gates of the White City, where the hunters would be waiting. 

Faramir, his younger brother and prince of the city, accompanied him; as they strode through the streets the crowds hurriedly parted to let them pass, for they were both fair of face and grand of stature, and the people beheld them with great respect. Boromir was strong, skilled of weapon and equally swift of resolve; he took no wife, and delighted in the art of war. And from that love of his also sprang his chief weakness: a tendency toward rash violence. Faramir, who was more learned in lore and music, often had to tactfully restrain his older brother, who could be vicious when provoked and would never suffer the slightest affront to his pride. 

There was already a large throng of people at the gates, engaged in negotiations with the traders; but all activity ceased the moment King Boromir and Prince Faramir arrived. The hunters stepped forward to speak with the king. There were four of them in all — their leader was a stout man with a bushy beard and an unyielding look about him. 

Unseen by all, a wizened old man materialised as if from nowhere and stood at a distance, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes as he observed the proceedings. His keen, obscured gaze missed nothing. Few knew or saw much of him, save the occasional glimpse, although most knew that this old man was on close terms with the steward of the household. 

Presently, the leader of the hunters stepped forward, and bowed low before the king and prince. 

"Good afternoon, my noble lords," he said with exaggerated politeness; the crooked smile on his lips betrayed his devious nature. Boromir was not deceived.

"What do you desire to speak to me about?" he asked shortly. "It is the middle of the day, and other matters of import also beckon."

"Gracious you are, lord, for finding time to speak with us lowly travelling traders," the leader continued, although the glint in his eye remained. "I'm sure you will discover that your precious time spent here is far from wasted... indeed, you will find much pleasure ere our leave be taken."

"That I will judge, when I have heard the matter," Boromir replied.

"Is it not true, as rumours say," said the leader slyly, "that in Minas Tirith and its surrounding country, slavery has been legalised and made a way of life amongst you?"

Boromir hesitated briefly.

"Yes," he answered stiffly. "Yet it is also the same manner in the other states of Gondor. And this is a local statute that has little to do with the trade you deal in." He allowed a tone of impatience to slip into his voice. "Now, what have you to say of your own matter? Speak swiftly, and I will give reply as I deem fit."

"Very well, I will be brief and direct." The leader turned and signalled to his companions, two of whom went at once to their caravan. They disappeared inside, drawing the flaps closed behind them; there followed some strange, muffled noises from within. The crowd waited in anticipation. 

A few minutes later, their heads reappeared and they climbed out of the caravan, although with great difficulty, as if they were dragging something heavy. People craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the load that the two hunters were hauling out — perhaps a treasure chest, full of jewels and lost wonders? — but they gasped when they finally saw what it was, for it surpassed even their imagination. 

It was more exquisite and beautiful than jewels, for it was living; and although few present had beheld another of its kind before, yet to all it was unmistakable what this creature was.

An Elf. 

Everyone stared, fascinated by the elf's wild, undefined beauty — natural as the stars, captivating as the Sea. It was clear that pains had been taken by the hunters to preserve this prized possession in its prime condition; yet the elf had not escaped unscathed, perhaps having had to be subdued by force on several occasions. There was a fresh bruise flowering on his cheekbone, yet it did not mar the delicate features set in the pale face. The elf's eyes shone with a defiant light, a silver fire, as he twisted against the leather bands that held his arms behind his back. His blond hair fell in fine, slightly tousled locks upon his slim shoulders.

One of the hunters started to shove the elf forward; but the other quickly hissed at him, and they both made a concerted effort to treat their prisoner less roughly. The elf's ankles were shackled by chains that chafed his smooth skin raw. He wore a tunic of dark green, the raiment of folk who dwell in forests; it concealed but flattered the slim body beneath, although it was torn in several places to reveal pale bare skin. 

The elf wrenched violently away from the touch of the hunters each time they tried to urge him along. He rebuked them in his own tongue, which sounded melancholic and melodious at the same time, like a lament of nature.

Boromir could not take his eyes away from the elf. He was entranced by the elf's beauty, simple yet divine; and he found himself overcome with an intense desire to have this prize for his own, whatever the cost. The untamed appeal of the elf excited him, like the thrill of embarking on war — a conquest that lay before him, which he would bend all his thought towards conquering and possessing. 

The leader of the hunters noticed Boromir's unabashed hunger, and smiled. Perhaps half the battle was already won. 

"Behold!" The leader gestured towards the elf with a proud sweep of his hand. "This is a prize beyond the reckoning of gold and silver, one of the rarest and most beautiful species to walk the earth — a gem from the forests of Mirkwood in the vast lands beyond. We went forth and brought him here, since we knew that he would bring you much pleasure, O king. A slave such as this you would likely never find again."

"You chose well," Boromir acknowledged curtly. "What would you ask for his price?"

"Only a trifle, my lord," the leader said, his voice placating. "It is but a small thing, a token for a possession as priceless as this; the rest of its value consider a gift of goodwill from our people to yours. We ask only for the dwelling places that lie on the farther shore of the Anduin — the land of Ithilien."

"You ask for Ithilien!" Boromir laughed sharply, and shook his head. "Then you do belittle the worth of that land, if you think its length and breadth is worth an exchange for a single slave, even though he be an elf of Mirkwood. Much of the land is not populated, no doubt; yet it has rich resources of game for hunting and fishing, and we will not relinquish it so lightly. It is ours by territorial right, and its value is far greater than what you offer."

Faramir, standing by Boromir's side, nodded approvingly; however he cast a searching glance at his brother, as if sensing Boromir's urgent desire to have this elf as his own. 

"Pardon I beg if I spoke contrary to my intention," the leader said, still glib and smooth of tongue. "Rather we hold Ithilien in high regard. As travelling folk we have wandered many leagues, homeless, and above all else we wish to have a land to call our own. We greatly desire Ithilien, for it would be an honour to dwell at such proximity to your fine city. We have searched far and wide to find this special gift to present to you as a token of our friendship, O King Boromir — for the elf is immortal, and his beauty will never fade. He will be a fine heirloom of your house for generations to come."

Boromir looked thoughtful; he was silent for a moment, and the stillness settled without a ripple over the entire assembly as they waited for the king's decision. Boromir's eyes strayed towards the elf once more; the elf looked back at him, and a fiery will burned in his eyes, unbroken still. But rather than being deterred, this aroused in Boromir a keen sense of challenge, and he took a step forward.

"I shall inspect the gift, ere I give you my reply," he said, not taking his eyes off the elf. 

Faramir looked ill at ease, and he gave the hunters a dark look; he trusted them not, and had never been happy allowing them to trade at the gates. But he could do nothing except watch Boromir walk towards the elf, who silently stood his ground.

Boromir neared the elf, who did not flinch even as he drew to a halt merely inches away. Fire blazed in those silver-grey eyes, a fierce resentment at being called a 'slave' and casually traded for a plot of land. Even as he looked into the elf's eyes, Boromir hesitated to touch him; however, primal need bettered his instinctive wariness, and he reached forward to brush his hand lightly against the elf's dirt-stained cheek. 

It was a seemingly tender movement, but beneath the light touch burned was a raw yearning, which the elf evidently detected. In response he moved a step backwards, breaking contact with Boromir.

A shadow of anger flitted across Boromir's face; but a possessive determination triumphed, and he drew back calmly, a grim smile on his face. He turned to the leader, who was waiting eagerly for an answer.

"I will lease you the land of Ithilien for five years," Boromir said resolutely; and Faramir despaired, for he knew his brother was bartering their country's land for what was clearly a personal pursuit, the nature of which Faramir feared to discover. 

"For five years you may dwell there, you and your people," Boromir continued. "That shall be the price for this elf-slave." He spoke the last word deliberately, and darkly relished the helpless rage in the elf's eyes.

"Twelve years," the leader swiftly countered, driving a hard bargain, playing on the controlled lust he sensed in the king. 

"Seven years and that is my final offer," Boromir said flatly; he might yearn deeply for the prize offered, but he would not be taken advantage of by reason of weakness. He gave the elf a careless look that disguised the intensity of his true feelings, and turned to face the leader of the hunters. "This which you offer, though of high quality, cannot justify such an exorbitant price. Seven years, and no more."

The leader consulted briefly with his companions; finally, they acquiesced, and the matter was sealed. The terms of the transaction were agreed upon: the captured elf would be promptly handed over to Boromir (for the king did not trust the hunters to treat their captive decently any longer, once his usefulness in negotiating a deal had been served); in return, they would receive the written deed giving them leave to inhabit the realm of Ithilien for seven years.

Through all this, the elf held his head high; his bright eyes shimmered as he watched his fate sealed with a handshake between Boromir and the leader of the hunters.

Boromir briskly gave instructions with regard to his new elf-slave. 

"Take him back to the palace," he told the guards, who stood by awaiting his word. "And hand him into the care of Aragorn; he will know what to do. Tell him that I want to see my new slave present at the dinner feast tonight."

The elf gave his new master a long, measured look, as if trying to gauge the person that would rule his life henceforth. And if one wondered that the elf did not feel misery at his capture and sale into a bleak existence in servitude, one only had to look into his eyes to see the volumes of sadness that ached within his soul, which loved nature and beauty and freedom.

Now that Boromir had obtained what he wanted, he barely spared the elf another glance. The deal done, he turned on his heel and departed, with Faramir by his side. The guards came near, and escorted the king's new slave back to the palace; the elf shrugged away their restraining hands on his shoulders, but allowed himself to be led away without a fight.

A distance down the road, Faramir fell into stride with Boromir.

"This is not altogether well, my brother," Faramir said, his voice troubled. "It is a decision too rashly made. We should have taken counsel ere we gave the hunters any reply."

"There was no need," Boromir replied; he seemed pleased with his afternoon's acquisition. "For my mind was already made up; and now, the deal has already been sealed. I cannot go back on my word."

"But do you really think it wise?" Faramir could not hold back any longer. "Permitting slavery in our kingdom is one thing, but — Elves are the Firstborn, and Men are the Followers. That is the way it has been decreed, ere the world begun. Are we not overstepping our boundaries by making an elf a slave of our household? It is contrary to the original purpose of the fair Kindred."

"He is not a slave of the household," Boromir answered. "He will be my _personal_ slave, and will serve me alone. For it is no coincidence that he was offered to _me_, and — I do not conceal my heart from you, brother — I deny not that I desire him greatly, from when I first laid eyes on him." 

Being kinder of heart, Faramir felt pity for the elf; also, something about the feral hunger that his brother had professed alarmed him, although he did not speak of it at present. 

Instead he asked, "Can we not find some work suitable for him in the palace?"

Boromir looked at his brother with great surprise. "Faramir, would I have leased out the use of Ithilien to those barbarians, just to recruit another officer in the palace? I think not. Nay, it is the elf and his physical beauty that I have found great pleasure in."

"You did not even ask his name," Faramir pointed out.

"It does not matter now." Boromir's lip curled with arrogance and satisfaction. "He is mine."

As the two brothers headed back towards the citadel, the wizened old man drew his grey cloak about him; he turned away, and was gone. Moments later he was seen slipping into the palace by the back doors; news of what he had witnessed he brought to Aragorn, steward of the king's household, whose duty it had been to remain behind in the palace whilst the king and prince were both absent. 

  
  


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	2. Chapter Two

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter Two  
by Rhysenn **  
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: The elf learns about his place in this strange city of Men; and we meet Aragorn, the steward of the house.   
  


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Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter Two**

  
  


"An Elf?" Aragorn repeated in amazement, after he had heard the brief tale his old friend had to tell. "The king gave those barbarians leave to dwell in Ithilien, in exchange for an _Elf?_"  
  
Gandalf tilted his head, looking thoughtfully at Aragorn from under his bushy eyebrows. "You seem astounded that an Elf would warrant an exchange such as the lease of Ithilien."  
  
"No," Aragorn replied tersely. "Rather, I am astounded that the king would trade with those travelling marauders, especially when the possession in question is an Elf, and the price is permitting foreign claim over land that is rightfully ours." 

In his voice flashed a deep hatred for the 'hunters,' as they called themselves — for Aragorn himself was one of the true Dúnedain of the North, and he loathed any association with such cruel, ruthless pillagers. 

"But how came they to overpower an elf?" Aragorn asked. "For although it has been long since I walked among those fair folk, I know that they are deft and nimble, skilled in self-defence at the least."  
  
"That I know not, either," Gandalf admitted. "I too was surprised, for Elves rarely move about alone, as among their kindred they find solidarity and strength. Perhaps this one was caught unawares; they bore him a great distance, for in the forests of Mirkwood they waylaid him."  
  
Aragorn's brow furrowed. "Do you approve, Gandalf?"  
  
Gandalf sighed. "An Elf, above all kindred, should not be reckoned so lightly; and his freedom is naught for anyone else to barter for personal gain."  
  
"I think likewise," Aragorn agreed. "It is one thing to command a slave of one's own race; but it is altogether different to strive to control one of the Elder Kindred."  
  
"I fear it is more complicated than that." Gandalf's eyes clouded with storm. "My heart misgives that King Boromir's interest in the elf goes beyond what meets the eye."  
  
Before Aragorn could ask Gandalf to elaborate, the doors to the palace opened, and in marched the guards; between them was a slender figure, upright and proud despite the slight slump of the shoulders, weighed with fatigue. The chains that bound his ankles clinked on the marble floor as he moved, graceful even while he was restrained. He walked with a perceptible limp; and although he did not resist the guidance of the guards, yet he would not endure being physically led.   
  
Aragorn's eyes settled on the elf as the guards drew him to a halt; the elf looked straight back at him, prevailing dignity evident in his unflinching gaze. He stood silently before Aragorn, the chains pooled around his feet, and his arms still bound behind his back.  
  
"King Boromir bade us tell you to ready this slave ere the dinner feast this evening," the chief guard informed Aragorn. "He is an Elf, and the king just purchased him from the hunters; they warn you to be careful, for they say this slave is not obedient or willing to be commanded."  
  
"As few free people ever are," Aragorn remarked succinctly; Gandalf shot him a quelling look. Aragorn nodded towards the guard. "Very well. I will take him from here; you are dismissed."  
  
The guard bowed. "We commit him to your care, my lord." They left the elf's side, and exited the hall.  
  
Aragorn barely noticed the guards' departure; he was too absorbed in studying the elf. He had always been fond of elves, as one would love a tender childhood memory, like a strain of forgotten music. It had been a long time since he dwelt with the elves, or had any dealings with them; seeing this elf rekindled his affection for the fair kindred, and Aragorn had to remind himself that this elf was not a guest of the house, but rather, a slave.   
  
Aragorn was accustomed to overseeing slaves that worked in the palace; ever since slavery had been legalised in Gondor, the taking of slaves by the wealthy was common, and had become a symbol of affluence. But this elf was different from any other slave he had dealt with. 

There was something special about the elf — perhaps it was his unwavering dignity in the face of subjugation, or the way he still wore his freedom like a protective cloak, even when he had been cruelly sold for a tenure of soil. 

Or maybe it was something else, altogether.  
  
Finally, Aragorn spoke.  
  
"What is your name?" he asked. "The name you formerly went by."  
  
"My name is Legolas Greenleaf," the elf answered; his voice was strong and mellifluous. "And it remains my name, as it will always be."  
  
"That may not be so," Aragorn told him. "For the king will give you a name that pleases him, and it shall be your new name."  
  
"I will answer to none other name than my own," the elf replied, in a tone of implicit defiance.  
  
"It is not your choice." Aragorn said firmly; he masked his own misgivings, and wore a stern face that demanded respect and obedience. "The king owns you now, and you have no say in matters even pertaining to yourself. That you would do well to understand, and get accustomed to." Through it all Aragorn never spoke the word 'slave.'  
  
"Legolas is the name my father bestowed upon me, ere I was born." The elf raised his eyes to level Aragorn's, and in them there was no fear or hesitancy. "I may have been taken far away from my homeland and brought here against my will, but I will never cast aside my heritage — most precious of which is my name."  
  
The elf's words struck a deep chord within Aragorn. He was without a reply for a long moment, lost in his own poignant memories of the meaning of lineage and patrimony. When he looked once again upon the elf standing before him, there was a different light in Aragorn's eyes — softer, as if born of a new understanding.  
  
"Very well," he said quietly. "Legolas shall be your name, unless the king says otherwise."  
  
Aragorn expected Legolas to thank him, for this was an uncommon show of consideration towards a slave; but the elf made no answer except for his even, unwavering gaze. Aragorn paused, and pushed the unbidden memories of the past to the fringes of his mind; there were matters at hand that needed tending. Briskly he laid down the standard rules of the household, which Legolas had to abide by. The elf listened, and then bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.  
  
"The afternoon swiftly wears away," Aragorn finally said. "The king desires to see you at the grand dinner feast this evening. You look tired; you must have travelled many leagues with little rest. When did you depart from Mirkwood?"  
  
A look of supreme astonishment crossed Legolas's face.   
  
"How knew you that I am from the woodland realm?" he asked, an eagerness in his voice like one who in a foreign country hears the song of his own land; for Legolas knew the guards had not mentioned his origin to Aragorn, and he had not perceived that Gandalf, who was standing by unobtrusively, had been among the crowd earlier.  
  
Aragorn gave Legolas an appraising look; it became clear to him now that he could recognise the elf's origin, even if Gandalf had not told him before.   
  
"Your raiment is of the Wood-elves, who dwell far north beneath the trees of Mirkwood," Aragorn answered. "And your accent and manner of speech are distinctly Sindarin."  
  
"You are acquainted with our folk?" Legolas asked, once more breaking the rule that slaves never ask questions, and only speak when they are first spoken to. Had there been guards in the hall with them, Aragorn would have had to rebuke the elf; but something now moved him to let it pass, since they were alone save for Gandalf.   
  
"I have been in your land, many years ago," he told Legolas. "And I have heard tales of the gladness that lived beneath the oak and beech of Greenwood the Great, ere the darkness fell upon that forest. Joyful tales, of a time when the shade under the branches gave no fear but only relief to those who passed through..." 

Aragorn broke off, extricating himself from bittersweet memories once again. Legolas was gazing at him with rapt attention, and there was a shimmer of forgotten joy in the elf's bright eyes as he heard the fair recollections of his homeland.   
  
"But no longer." Aragorn forced himself to regain his formal composure; he had already said too much of what he felt. "The darkness settled upon the land; days of light and beauty have long passed. They are no more."  
  
The tentative spark in Legolas's eyes wavered at Aragorn's cold withdrawal; the elf dropped his gaze to the floor, and the sadness returned to his demeanour.   
  
Aragorn made a concerted effort to return to his task. "You have not yet answered my question, Legolas: when were you brought hence from your dwelling?"  
  
"I do not know." Legolas's voice was soft, almost painfully so. "I cannot remember, for they frequently emptied vials of foul concoctions down my throat to subdue me. I drifted in and out of consciousness, and I am not certain how many days or nights have since passed. I have eaten little, and my head aches."  
  
"You will be fed, and clothed with fresh garments." Aragorn felt a twinge of sympathy for Legolas; not pity, for the elf was too proud for that. "Then you may rest to regain your strength before the feast."  


Gandalf's voice now spoke.

"Perhaps it would also be well to remove his bonds, if he gives his word not to struggle with you or attempt flight." At Gandalf's words, both Aragorn and Legolas turned towards him; and there was a brief flicker of gratitude in Legolas's eyes.

Aragorn turned his attention to Legolas's chains. True enough, they were cruel and too tight for comfort, and bit into the soft flesh around the elf's ankles. He resolved to free Legolas from them; but first, he needed assurance that it would not be folly to do so.  
  
"If I rid you of your bonds," Aragorn said to Legolas, who listened attentively. "Do you promise not to fight back, or hazard escape the moment you are liberated?"  
  
"I give you my word," Legolas answered decisively; as if the word of a slave still held worth, other than in his own eyes.  
  
Aragorn approached him, drawing his sword as he went; Legolas watched the blade with keen eyes, but did not recoil. Going behind him, Aragorn laid a palm on Legolas's hands, holding them down as he deftly sliced the leather bands with an upward flick of the sword. The bands fell in shreds to the floor, and Legolas drew his arms forward, rubbing his wrists ruefully. 

Then Aragorn knelt to inspect the chains around Legolas's ankles — they were thick and sturdy, but the locks that secured them were not. With a sharp strike with the blunt edge of his sword, he broke each lock to pieces without jarring Legolas on impact. 

Carefully Aragorn removed the chains, and saw that the flesh beneath was reddened and sore. He straightened; as he stepped back, he caught the elf's soft voice, on the wings of a barely audible whisper.

"Thank you."  
  
Aragorn nodded, and signalled for Legolas to follow him; and Legolas did, without having to be told again. Aragorn bade farewell to Gandalf, and his old friend went forth from the hall. Aragorn would probably not see him for the rest of the day, since Gandalf never attended feasts with the officials of Minas Tirith. But Gandalf always had a knack of appearing just when he was needed, at precisely the right time.  
  
Presently Aragorn brought Legolas into the bath house — as with the rest of the palace it was a grand chamber, lit with candles white as ivory, which never seemed to burn down. Inside, it was separated into two chambers: on the right were the cubicles for the officials. Each held a bath tub carved out of a block of solid black marble veined with pearl, ornately decorated with designs etched in gold. A curtain, which looked delicate and translucent as thin silk yet was made of waterproof material, could be drawn around the tub.  
  
In the left chamber were smaller cubicles meant for the servants. The tubs were small and plain, with no surrounding curtain, and the baths did not have the luxury of hot water. A guard watched the servants' bath chamber. 

Aragorn turned to Legolas, and beckoned him towards one of the cubicles. The elf hesitated briefly.

"May I be allowed to bathe alone?" he asked respectfully, in a low voice so the guard was not able to overhear him.

This was not the traditional way with new slaves — they were not permitted to bathe unassisted, in case they might, in their wild desperation, attempt to drown themselves in the tub. Aragorn considered the elf's request; there seemed no harm in allowing it. And it was something he actually _wanted_ to do for Legolas.

Aragorn turned to the guard on duty. "Bring clean garments for the elf," he commanded. "He is to be properly arrayed for the feast tonight."

As the guard left to carry out his task, Aragorn cast a meaningful glance at Legolas. The elf nodded gratefully; then he lowered his eyes, and turned away.  
  
Aragorn found himself slightly reluctant as he withdrew to give Legolas some privacy. He lingered just outside the chamber; and he could still see the silhouette of Legolas's slender form, against the flickering candlelight that played across the smooth wet walls of the bath house.

The guard returned bearing fresh garments, and Aragorn left them just inside the chamber. Shortly later Legolas emerged, and Aragorn had to fight to contain his amazement — for although Legolas had been attractive clad in his stained, dark green raiment of Mirkwood, now dressed in finer robes he looked stunning.  
  
Legolas wore a simple tunic of pale-white — it would have been modest, except that it was too short on him. And because he was slim, it was suggestively loose, sliding about his lean shoulders. The collar stood apart, revealing his graceful neck. Legolas also wore tight-fitting black leggings that reached down to his ankles, hiding his injuries; and the way these enhanced his legs pushed the boundaries of decency. Aragorn wondered if the robes were too splendid for the elf to wear — but he soon realised that it was Legolas who added beauty to the fabrics that arrayed him, and not vice versa.  
  
Moreover, slaves were never called to be in attendance as guests at grand feasts; and Aragorn wanted to make sure Legolas was aptly attired for the occasion. Even now it had almost slipped Aragorn's mind that Legolas was actually a slave. Aragorn set him in no bonds, although he did not give Legolas a belt to gird around his waist, as was customary for guests of the king's feast.   


"You look splendid," Aragorn said simply. 

Legolas looked up; the sincerity in Aragorn's voice made the edges of his lips lift ever so slightly, in a quick, somewhat sad smile. Then it was gone, like a shimmer of moonlight on still waters.

Aragorn led Legolas away from the bath house. He had some food brought before the elf, who seemed weak from hunger. It was quail's meat — more special than the usual fare, since it was part of leftover samples from the spread for the feast. 

However, when the elf saw the dish set before him, he looked dismayed and shook his head.  
  
"I cannot eat this," he told Aragorn earnestly. "In the forests of Mirkwood birds are our friends, especially those who roost in the branches of the trees and do us no harm. The flesh of friendly birds we do not eat; and the meat of evil birds we do not touch. That is our way of life."  
  
Aragorn now realised the folly of his kindness towards Legolas — for it now seemed that Legolas had become comfortable in his presence, and treated him more as an equal than a superior. In Minas Tirith slaves were not accorded such luxury of choice; and as far as Aragorn could see Legolas was clearly a 'slave,' though he was loath to use that term. Such behaviour could not be tolerated — it would be interpreted as impudence, and an insolent slave would be punished until he learnt his lesson.   
  
"And this is _our_ way of life," Aragorn said firmly, pushing the plate of quail's meat in front of Legolas, who regarded it with revulsion. "You will do well to forget your old way of life, Legolas, because that has passed. It does not matter if you accept it, or not — you shall have to live with it."  
  
"No," Legolas said in a tortured whisper; his eyes hazed over with pain and sadness. "I do not wish to live like this."  
  
"You cannot speak in such a manner!" Aragorn hissed fiercely, standing up with an abruptness that startled even Legolas, who looked up at him with eyes that shone liquid silver. "Do you not understand? You will suffer greatly if you do not relinquish this stubborn attitude! Do not speak that way in front of me again!"  
  
Legolas subsided, and said nothing for a long while. Aragorn gazed at him, and wondered how he had allowed himself to develop such an affection for this elf in such a short span of time.   
  
Finally, Legolas spoke; his voice was quiet, subdued. "I never saw you before, when you walked the paths of Mirkwood."   
  
"Perhaps you did, but could not recognise that it was me." Aragorn gave him a veiled look.  
  
"Nay," Legolas said, with a small shrug. "We would have noticed you without delay; for Men move recklessly when sometimes there is need for stealth. The rustle of the grasses as they pass through often gives them away." He paused. "Men are sometimes aimless, and lack purpose; that is their undoing."  
  
"Pay close attention, Legolas," Aragorn said severely. "For I will give you some counsel that you shall do well to heed — for your own good."  
  
"What will your counsel be?" Legolas asked.  


"Words are treacherous," Aragorn answered; he held Legolas's gaze. "Here they will bring you no comfort or relief; only suffering and punishment. Do not ask any questions; some things are better left unanswered. For your pride will be your undoing."  
  
"You do not understand," Legolas said; there was a desperate intensity in his eyes. "I have lost everything that has meaning in my life — my home, my happiness, my freedom. My pride is all I have."  
  
"And you possess it to your own ruin," Aragorn said; he rose to his feet, for the time of the dinner feast was drawing near. With a sweeping turn he strode towards the feasting hall; Legolas paused a moment, and then followed him. The plate of quail's meat remained on the table, untouched. 

  
  


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	3. Chapter Three

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter Three  
by Rhysenn **   
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: The grand dinner feast takes place, and Legolas is brought before King Boromir — will pride beget a fall?   
  


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Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter Three**

  
  


The Spring Feast was a grand and elaborate event, for which the kitchen servants began preparations several days in advance. It was held annually in Merethrond, the Great Hall of Feasting: a large sprawling floor built upon a pavilion, edged by white carved pillars that upheld the cavernous ceilings above. Today, it was bedecked in colours of verdant green and sparkling silver.

The high officials of the palace had their place at the exclusive Velvet Table, situated upon a broad elevated dais laid with a fine purple carpet, where the king himself would dine. The other grandees at the feast were prominent guild masters and merchants of Minas Tirith; almost all in attendance were male. Apart from the wine and fine food, there would also be live entertainment — most of the performances were of a sensual nature. Excesses in drink served also to loosen inhibitions; and for most of the guests, the night would usually culminate in sexual gratification of some kind.

Legolas was brought into Merethrond unshackled; for he was a slave, not a prisoner. Almost all the guests had already gathered, and they watched Legolas with avid eyes — most had not seen elves in a long time, and murmured comments were made about the beauty of King Boromir's new slave. But no one dared lay a hand on Legolas as he passed by, led by Aragorn, steward of the household.

Aragorn brought Legolas to the Velvet Table, and instructed him to stand by the pillar behind the king's royal seat. Legolas's eyes darted around the hall, and a caged fear flitted across his face — which Aragorn saw.

"Do not be afraid," he muttered, just loud enough for Legolas to hear. "They will not dare lay a hand on you. Speak to no one, and await the king's arrival."

"And shall I fear then?" Legolas said softly.

Aragorn had no answer. He stood close, and touched Legolas's hand lightly, his gesture concealed by the folds of his own cloak. Legolas looked at him, and there was a certain understanding in his eyes.

He left Legolas, and went to his seat at the Velvet Table, next to Faramir, who was already there. Aragorn was glad, for he and the prince were great friends. Faramir regarded the elf with troubled interest; he spoke to Aragorn in a low voice.

"My brother has set his heart on that elf," Faramir said. "I am sure you have heard that the leasing of Ithilien for seven years was the acquisition price of the elf. Truth be told, I counselled strongly against it — but to no avail, for Boromir desires him greatly."

Something in Faramir's words struck a cold nerve within Aragorn; he liked not the sound of them, and his earlier foreboding grew deeper. Gandalf's ominous words echoed in his mind: _My heart misgives that King Boromir's interest in the elf goes beyond what meets the eye._

"The reason for the king's delight in the elf is plain to see," Aragorn said, careful not to reveal his suspicion. "For he is beautiful; and being an Elf, likely very talented and skilled in many ways."

"Well, then perhaps he will also be adept in what the king desires him for," Faramir replied, in a heavy tone. "I would not be so uneasy, had he not been an Elf. But... well, I suppose every effort must be made to fulfil the king's wishes. So I shall hold my peace for now. My brother has laboured hard for Minas Tirith, and he deserves some reprieve."

Aragorn could no longer withhold his burning question. "Do you imply that the king wishes the elf to be his — _personal_ slave? And to — serve him, in _any_ manner he might ask?"

Faramir nodded. "Have you not heard the rumour that has been spreading like wildfire amongst the court officials? They have talked of little else all afternoon, and even now the curiosity of the entire city must be piqued. But — oh, little wonder that you have not heard, for you have been tending to the elf since he arrived, preparing him for the feast. You have done well, and I am sure my brother will be greatly pleased — the elf looks splendid."

"Legolas." Aragorn said shortly. "His name is Legolas."

"A fair name for one of his kindred," Faramir said; Aragorn silently agreed with him as he gazed at Legolas, who stood quietly where he had been instructed; the elf looked like a living statue of carved marble. 

"It is regrettable that he cannot dwell here as a resident of Minas Tirith," Faramir continued. "But my brother has made it clear that he sought the prized possession solely as his own to enjoy."

"With the payment of the lands of our people?" Aragorn asked, his voice hard; even as he spoke a painful twinge awoke inside him, twisting deeply.

"I did not wish this to come to pass," Faramir answered, with a sigh. "You know, better than anyone else, how I grieved when the law permitting slavery in our realm was enacted. But then, as now, I remain powerless to overrule the king's decision. My brother is stubborn and strong-willed — he knows what he wants, and he will stop at nothing to get it." 

As they were speaking, King Boromir entered the hall. He was dressed in the finest royal robes, and he looked magnificent. The gathered guests rose, and with a gesture of his hand Boromir bade them all join him; everyone settled down in their places. Boromir's eyes swept across the hall; but he missed Legolas, who was standing partially concealed by the pillar behind him. 

He turned to Aragorn. "Where is the elf-slave of mine?"

Aragorn gritted his teeth as he stood. "He is waiting by the pillar, lord." He surmised that Boromir meant no real malice by referring to Legolas as 'slave,' but only spoke with careless insensitivity; however, Aragorn could see the dark fire in Legolas's eyes, and he knew that the elf greatly resented it.

"Bring him forth to me," came the king's command.

Aragorn went over to Legolas, and escorted him towards Boromir. Legolas walked with graceful strides, his unwillingness barely perceptible in his measured steps as he drew closer to stand before the king. Aragorn's hand brushed against Legolas's once again; then Aragorn stepped back, and Legolas stood alone.

Boromir regarded Legolas with languid satisfaction; he let his gaze slide up and down the elf's slender body, a prelude of what was his to touch and bend to his will as he pleased. The entire assembly watched in fascination. Finally Boromir rose to his feet, and addressed the guests; as he spoke, he laid his hand possessively on Legolas's shoulder, drawing him near. 

"Here I present before you a jewel from lands afar," Boromir announced proudly. "Brought to our gates as a prize to be held in the kingdom of Anórien, even kept within the palaces of Minas Tirith. He is an Elf from the distant forests of Mirkwood, where he must have been among the fairest that walked there under moon and starlight.

"For a price worthy of his exquisiteness he was bought, and henceforth I alone will he be obliged to serve. By day he shall work as I please, and he will dwell in my chambers at night. He will feast by my side, and not as one of the servants." 

Boromir let his hand slide down Legolas's body, to rest on the small of his back. The elf stiffened, yet mustered enough self-control not to react. 

Boromir did not sense the tension in the body next to him, and continued: "Let it be known in all the city that this elf is my possession! I am now his master, and exclusive and faithful he shall be; and his name shall be called —"

"My lord," Aragorn said; he stood abruptly, interrupting the king's speech. Boromir turned to look at him questioningly. Aragorn drew a deep breath.

"Pardon me," he said, in a quiet yet strong voice. "But the elf's rightful name is Legolas. And perhaps it would please you to name him such — it is a beautiful name, meaning 'green leaf' in the Elvish tongue. For he is indeed slender and rare as a mallorn leaf, and evergreen in his youth."

Aragorn dropped his gaze, and sat down; he felt an odd heat burning on his cheeks. When he looked up again, he saw that Legolas's eyes were fixed on him, filled with a new light of wonder. 

Boromir was greatly pleased by Aragorn's suggestion. "Very well! He shall be called Legolas by all in this realm. Perhaps he will be comforted by the use of his familiar name."

There was applause from the guests as Boromir sat down, and Legolas was given a lower seat by his side, just next to Aragorn. Legolas looked at Aragorn, and there was no need for him to put his gratitude into words; his eyes said it all.

Now the food was served without further ado, and Legolas was given a portion of whatever dishes his master partook. Boromir barely spoke to him, engaging instead in conversation with his officials. Aragorn joined in the talk at occasional points, although he was distracted; he found himself frequently casting sidelong glances. Beside him, Legolas ate swiftly, yet seemed preoccupied, caught in a deep thought that only he knew.

Then the soup for the evening was brought — it was a delicacy, rich and fragrant, and was served only to the king and those dining at the Velvet Table, while the other guests received another variety of stew. Legolas watched with a deepening frown as the servant ladled out the soup; when he was given his portion, he examined it closely, and for the first time that evening he spoke. 

"May I inquire what soup this is?" he said quietly to Aragorn; he spoke so softly that no one else noticed him.

"A speciality of the culinary masters of Minas Tirith," Aragorn answered. "It is double-boiled with the swallow's nest and eggs, which are known to do much for one's physical health."

"Among other things!" another official quipped; laughter rippled through the company. 

Legolas's jaw dropped, and he looked utterly horrified. He stared at the soup, revolted, and seemed on the verge of pushing the bowl away from him — a clear symbol of rejection of a dish so highly valued. But he looked up, and caught Aragorn's eye; his warning gaze spoke volumes, and it stayed Legolas's hand.

"This is _our_ way of life," Aragorn said meaningfully, in a low but intense voice that could barely be heard by anyone except Legolas. "Down your pride, together with that soup."

Aragorn saw that the elf was going through a great internal struggle — the turmoil of his natural instincts against his better judgement. Finally, Legolas bowed his head, and spoon by spoon choked the entire bowl of soup down his throat, forcing himself not to gag each time he gulped. When he finally set down the empty bowl, Legolas looked as if he were going to be sick.

Following the meal, Boromir beckoned Legolas to his side on the couch as the performances began. Aroused by the sensual movements of the dancers and the wine he had consumed, Boromir leaned in; with one strong hand he turned Legolas's face towards him, and kissed the elf's lips, gently at first, then more insistently. 

Legolas did not move; he let Boromir kiss him, although he did not respond. However, he was forced to concede when Boromir's tongue pried his lips apart and slid into his mouth. Now both of Boromir's hands were holding Legolas's head still so that he could not turn aside; the kiss was firm and dominant, as if marking territory.

But all the while that Boromir kissed him, Legolas's eyes were on Aragorn; their eyes met briefly, before Aragorn quickly looked away. Legolas dropped his gaze sorrowfully; then he became aware that the king had begun to undo the fastenings on his tunic. 

Legolas froze, his entire body going rigid as detached horror flooded through him. Boromir's mouth was still upon his, and his kisses grew fiercer, more passionate. But when Boromir slid his hand inside his parted tunic and began to caress the bare skin that lay beneath, Legolas could not endure any longer. 

With a soft gasp he jerked back, his eyes wild with fear and a trapped desperation.

"Please, my lord," Legolas whispered, shaking his head pleadingly. "Do not use me in this manner. It is not the way with my people."

Aragorn's head snapped up in horrified disbelief. There was a shocked murmur from the officials around the table, who had been watching the king's advances upon his slave with great interest. Boromir looked startled beyond words as he stared at the elf — but rage quickly flooded in to replace incredulity. 

"Please," Legolas repeated fervently; and if Boromir had not been so enraged, maddened by his hurt pride and dark lust, he would have been moved by some inherent sympathy. But now, his dark eyes were aflame with wrath as he regarded Legolas. The king was keenly aware that all his court officials were observing his every move, and it angered him greatly that they witnessed the elf's defiance towards him — for the sake of his own dignity, it could not go unpunished. 

Boromir drew back his right hand and struck Legolas hard across his face. The impact sent the elf reeling, as he slipped from the edge of the couch and fell to the floor. Everyone at the Velvet Table stared, too stunned to react; word of the king's fury rippled quickly through the rest of the assembly, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the elevated dais.

Aragorn clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold his silence. He gripped the sides of his chair tightly with both hands, as he watched Legolas struggle into an upright position. Blood flowed from a cut on the elf's lower lip, and flecks of red stained the white collar of his tunic, which had been unfastened halfway down the front. 

Boromir seized Legolas by the arm and dragged him to his feet, then flung the elf down onto the couch again. Legolas put up little resistance; he still looked dazed from the blow, and the strength sapped from him through his long journey from the North had not yet been recovered.

"Perhaps you have not sufficiently learned the meaning of being my slave, Legolas," Boromir said harshly; the elf recoiled as his master swiftly advanced upon him. "Well listen now, and remember once and for all — it means that you will do _exactly_ as I wish, without question or protest. Do you understand?"

"I will carry out your bidding," Legolas said, his voice surprisingly strong and clear. "But I implore you not to take more from me than my service for your city."

Boromir gave a mirthless smile. "You insult the officials of my court who are reclining around this table, foolish elf," he said coldly. "They are talented and shrewd men who serve me and the peoples of Minas Tirith with their wisdom and skill — how dare a slave request the same as the honoured members of my council?"

Boromir leaned in, and Legolas flinched in anticipation of another blow; but it never fell. He slowly raised his gaze to look at Boromir — uncertainty and helplessness blazed in his bright elven eyes, which still did not yield. 

"You, Legolas, are my _personal_ slave," Boromir continued; his voice was pierced with steel. "And your place is to serve me _personally_, in any manner that I demand."

"My lord," Legolas whispered, desperately, "It is not —"

"And you will call me Master." Boromir's voice was merciless, filled with thinly controlled anger. 

Legolas saw that it was hopeless; he bowed his head in silent defeat. Boromir looked satisfied, and took the elf by the wrist and pulled him to his feet. With his fingers he wiped the drying blood away from Legolas's lip in an oddly tender gesture; then he bent forward and kissed Legolas hard on the mouth. 

The elf did not move; but as Boromir's hands began to ease the tunic off his shoulders, Legolas shuddered and broke the lip-lock. He turned his face away from the king — he could not bear to look at anyone now, least of all Aragorn. 

"Please... master," Legolas said softly, hoping in a last attempt to avert what was to come. "Please do not do this — I beg of you."

Boromir took a step backwards; his face was flushed with wine and fury and lust, and he regarded Legolas with a terrible expression in his eyes. 

"This slave still needs to be trained, it seems — perhaps he should be taught to beg for other things." Boromir looked grim as he nodded at his guards, who stood by awaiting orders. "Take him to my chambers without delay; I shall deal with him privately, and spare our guests the tediousness of his defiance."

Aragorn saw the look of utter desolation on Legolas's face as the guards took hold of him, and escorted him from Merethrond. He also saw the way Boromir's hard eyes followed the slender elf, coldly calculating the punishment for his slave's disgraceful behaviour in front of his guests.

Faramir, seated beside him, said nothing; but a sidelong glance at the prince told Aragorn that the king's younger brother did not approve of what he had witnessed. Nevertheless, with Boromir in such a dangerous mood, even Faramir did not dare contradict him — for they all knew that the king could be swiftly provoked, and in the heat of his anger he was fearsome indeed.

After lingering briefly, Boromir took leave to attend to 'other matters,' although he assured the guests that he would return soon, and encouraged them to continue their merrymaking. It was customary for such feasts to last until dawn, and the celebrations would still be in full swing several hours later. 

Aragorn watched the king depart, and a feeling of distinct unease churned in his stomach, like a knife being slowly twisted. Shortly thereafter he too excused himself, and exited the hall. 

He went outside alone, into the open courtyard. As he looked up at the stars in the heavens, they reminded him of the silver brightness of Legolas's eyes, filled with a light that radiated from within: living beauty blazing strong yet remote, as if out of great depths of time, fathomless and eternal. 

Aragorn knew that he bore part of the blame. He had not helped Legolas get accustomed to life as a slave in Minas Tirith; he had only succeeded in making the elf forget, for a little while, the stark truth of who he now was. And although it had been gentle and comforting for Legolas in those moments, like the sweet intoxication of wine — now it would be twice as bitter to swallow, as the brutal truth sank doubly deep.

Aragorn lowered his eyes, and gazed upon the stars no more; for they brought him a sadness that gnawed deep in his heart, and troubled his soul.

  
  


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	4. Chapter Four

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter Four  
by Rhysenn **   
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: Boromir asserts his authority, and Aragorn struggles with feelings that he cannot ignore.   
  


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Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter Four**

  
  


The king's quarters were lavishly decorated. Fine tapestries hung from the wood-panelled walls of his grand study, although Legolas was led past them with such speed that he could not clearly discern the scenes they each depicted. But he knew most of them were tributes to momentous scenes of battle — the proud and bitter history of Men laid out across the walls, immortalised in the corridor of Time.

He was brought into the king's bedchambers, and left there. Legolas felt a sickened sense of dread as he set eyes on the vast bed. It was fitted with expensive white linen sheets, and covers woven of the finest wool. The posts at each corner were wrought of copper, engraved with decorative runes that he could not recognise. 

Legolas looked around him in desperation and misery, and it was not claustrophobia but a different kind of wild fear that set in. The magnificent furnishings of the bedchamber meant nothing to him — it was like being locked up in a prison with walls of gold. 

He had heard many rumours of the ways of Men: how they delighted in warfare and the domination of their own kind, and how men who kept thralls often took the women of the conquered to wife by force. Legolas knew perfectly well what the king — his _master_ — wanted from him. Now, his only fear was the ordeal he had to endure before the night would be over. How could the night bring such cruelty, when the stars of Elbereth shone brightly high above, in all their silver beauty?

He heard the sharp echo of Boromir's resolute strides drawing closer, growing louder like a knell of doom. Legolas's heartbeat quickened, and he swallowed hard. He had never felt so trapped in his entire life — there had always been some hidden path that led away to safety, or the comforting sound of an elven voice nearby. But now there was nothing, except the metallic clang of bolts being slid aside.

The door opened, and Boromir entered the chamber. He immediately saw Legolas standing near the bed; a smile lifted the sides of his proud mouth, and in his eyes there blazed a fire of intense longing. The door shut behind him with finality. The moment of resounding silence that ensued strung the atmosphere with a harsh coldness.

Boromir drew closer to Legolas, who stood still, his slender body rigid as a winter-frozen tree. The king's eyes savoured the vision of living beauty before him; although they also perceived the elf's silent defiance, and resolved to break it. 

"Undress," he commanded sternly, and took a step backwards to watch.

Legolas regarded him with resentful dignity; but with a despairing glance at the bolted door, he knew that he had no chance for escape. He had no other choice but to obey. With quavering hands he unfastened the front of his tunic and gracefully shrugged it off his shoulders, laying it neatly by the side. Then, with greater effort, he slid the black leggings down his thighs. 

Boromir watched with hungry eyes as the elf removed every stitch of garment, and finally stood naked before him. The dim firelight played across the contours of Legolas's body — glimmering on the smooth skin of his long, slender legs, defining the proud uprightness of his shoulders, turning his blond hair gold like the sunset, kindling in his bright, fiery eyes.

"You are beautiful." Boromir was unable to contain the passion within him as he strode closer, and took Legolas in his arms. 

He kissed the elf fiercely, allowing his hands to roam freely over the pale, silky skin. Legolas held his breath and did not move a muscle, willing himself to remain still. He relaxed momentarily only when the king pulled away to undress, but he knew that it was just a brief respite.

"Why do you keep silent?" Boromir turned back to Legolas after he had stripped off his own robes. "Do you not hear my words of praise for you?"

An inscrutable expression shimmered in the elf's eyes. 

"How can you say that I am beautiful, when you do not know me?" Legolas spoke in a careful, measured voice. "My outward appearance pleases you; but while that may be counted attractiveness, it is not beauty." He paused. "One cannot judge beauty in the absence of knowledge — or love."

Anger flashed like sudden lightning in Boromir's eyes, provoked by the insinuation in Legolas's words that he lacked the kinder, more refined qualities. He stalked forward, seized Legolas by the shoulders and roughly shoved him backwards onto the bed.

"You still speak with insolence, elf." Boromir's voice bore a dangerous tone, and he leaned closer, trapping Legolas's face with his hand. "Your reckless arrogance will do you great disservice. Why do you still resist me?"

"I know what you desire of me." There was a tortured acceptance in Legolas's voice. "But it is not our custom to enter into a... physical bond, with another that one hardly knows. Please, do not force me."

"It is also not the custom among Men who own slaves to allow them to attend dinner feasts, unless for the purpose of pleasuring the guests." Boromir remained unmoved by Legolas's plea; the sight of the elf lying naked on his bed was enough to drive out the last vestige of reason. "It is clear that you do not appreciate the special treatment you have received. Perhaps you need a more literal form of training to impress upon you that you are bound to carry out my bidding."

Boromir moved back, and retrieved a black leather sash from a wardrobe; Legolas eyed it with alarm as the king drew near once more. 

"Kneel on the bed," Boromir instructed. "And lean forward, so your hands are wrapped around the right bed-post." 

Legolas slowly complied. Boromir proceeded to bind the sash tightly around the elf's wrists several times, tying them securely to the bedpost. It was an awkward position for Legolas — he was forced to lean his weight forward, and the sash chafed his wrists as he moved. The flickering candlelight danced across the glazed skin of his exposed back, and his knees sank into the soft mattress, which dipped as Boromir climbed onto the bed.

Boromir spread Legolas's legs apart, and moved in between them. A jar of oil stood on the table next to the bed; Legolas heard Boromir open the jar, and he tensed as he felt the king's fingers push inside of him, slick with oil. 

"Please," Legolas whispered desperately, closing his eyes. His face flushed in mortification at the intimate invasion — insistent fingers probed deeply, stretching him. "Please, do not..."

"I wish to know you now," Boromir murmured in his ear, as he withdrew his hand and shifted closer. "Do not struggle, and it will go better."

Then Boromir slid himself into the elf with a single smooth thrust. 

Legolas gasped in pain, and gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to dwell on the searing sensation that consumed him whole, like stabs of a knife. He closed his eyes, and a dizzy spectrum of colour streaked behind his closed lids — crimson, dissolving into black.

Then Boromir did a strange thing. He suddenly stopped moving, and held perfectly still, completely sheathed inside the trembling body beneath him. Then one of his hands went around Legolas's waist, and grasped the elf firmly between his legs. Boromir began to stroke him, and with satisfaction he felt the flesh caught in his palm grow hard. 

Legolas quivered helplessly — his hands were tied, and he was trapped between the shaft lodged deep inside him and the hand that now kindled his own arousal. He was unable to restrain the way his body was reacting to Boromir's ministrations. He shuddered as Boromir's hand coaxed him further, and to his own horror, Legolas found himself automatically pushing forward against the delicious friction of the king's cupped palm around him. 

Boromir smiled, and relished the way Legolas was responding to him. His fingers worked faster, drawing the elf towards completion, and he felt Legolas shake uncontrollably under his hands, wracked with the raw sensation that burned both ways. Then, as he held the elf on the very brink of climax, Boromir claimed him once more. 

He drove himself deeper, eliciting a choked cry from Legolas. He began to ride the elf with slow deliberate strokes; then with a tightening of his hand, Boromir finally granted him release. With a ragged sob Legolas came, and his body shook with the explosion of pain twisted with hateful pleasure. Brimming with dark ecstasy, Boromir gripped Legolas's waist and pulled the elf back against him, one last time. Legolas took him over the edge, and with hard, sharp breaths he poured himself out inside the elf's body.

When Boromir finally withdrew from him, Legolas's limbs were crying out from the awkward position they had been confined in — but more than that, the humiliation of his own shameful pleasure tore his spirit to shreds. He closed his eyes; he was vaguely aware of Boromir loosening the sash that tied his hands to the bedpost. He slid limply to the floor, and covered his face with his hands.

"I will return to the feast now." Boromir briskly got dressed, and then turned back to Legolas. "You will remain here, and you may rest for the night." His gaze slid over the naked, shivering body of the elf, and his expression softened slightly. "Arrangements will be made for a set of sleeping robes for you."

The elf gave no answer, and kept his head lowered. Boromir watched him with a sharp glint in his eye. "Do you hear me, Legolas, or have you not yet learned your lesson?"

"Yes," Legolas said in a broken whisper. "I have heard your words."

"Then answer when you are spoken to!" Boromir said harshly. "Have you so swiftly forgotten that you are to call me Master? And where is your gratitude for the luxury of new robes for you to sleep in?"

"Thank you, master." Legolas's voice was soft and hollow. 

"Good." Boromir was satisfied. "Perhaps you will soon see that a life in thrall is not as dire as you would think it to be." He paused, then added, "After all, you have just amply demonstrated how you can find great pleasure even whilst being dominated by me."

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast. Boromir gave the elf an appraising look, and then took a few steps forward. He reached down, and Legolas flinched at his touch; but Boromir took his arm firmly and pulled him to his feet. 

"You are beautiful," Boromir said once more, in a low, husky voice, as he stroked Legolas's face with one hand, touching the bruise on his cheekbone that was not of his doing. Then he kissed the elf fully on the mouth, his manner hard and possessive. Legolas parted his lips to allow entry to Boromir's searching tongue, but otherwise did not move. 

Boromir drew back with a frown, noticing Legolas's lack of responsiveness. "You cannot deny that you derived enjoyment just now. Why do you still refuse to serve me willingly?"

"Pain does much to dull willingness." Legolas answered quietly, raising his eyes to level Boromir's; there was still some spirit left in them, however crushed and wretched.

"Yes." An unnamed emotion flitted across the king's face. "But pain also does much to help remembrance — and I know that you shall never forget this night."

With that, Boromir swept out of the bedchamber; the door closed behind him, and the bolt was shot home. 

Legolas waited until the footsteps faded away into cold silence, before he allowed the bitter tears to fall. He slumped back against the wall and slid to the floor, a body beautiful and broken.

  


* * * * *

  


Aragorn hurried along the corridors, heading toward the king's bedchamber. He had received orders from Boromir to clothe Legolas in sleeping garments, and ensure that the elf was securely locked in the room. His haste, however, was not owing to a desire to carry out the king's instructions swiftly; something else burned within him, mingled dread and anxiety.

He spoke briefly to the guard outside the bedchamber, and was permitted entry. Opening the door cautiously, Aragorn looked inside — he immediately saw Legolas huddled on the floor, a forlorn prisoner in his cavernous cell.

Legolas seemed startled to see him, and pulled himself to his feet. But Aragorn could see that he moved slowly, slightly bent over, as if from some internal ache. There was a wild terror in the elf's eyes even though he seemed to recognise Aragorn, and he edged away from him, until he was backed up against the far wall.

Aragorn opened his mouth, wanting to reassure the elf; but as his eyes swept over Legolas's exposed body, slender and beautiful, something else speared through him, like a poisoned dart. And at that moment he could see why Boromir was overcome with such great desire for the elf — and a new, dark temptation crept through Aragorn's veins as he drank up the titillating sight of Legolas standing naked in front of him: golden-blond hair and silver-pale skin, glistening and moist and smooth as silk...

__

No one would know.

The primal voice inside Aragorn's head dominated his thoughts as he walked closer to Legolas, each step slow and measured. The elf was cornered, and completely at his mercy. The king had returned to the feast, and all the other palace officials were merry-making. The guard stationed outside would not hear a single sound, or enter the king's chambers without permission. 

If he wanted, he could have Legolas for himself. He held a high place in the household, and Boromir trusted him implicitly; even if Legolas dared to speak up afterwards, the king would never believe a slave's word over his own steward's. This was the perfect opportunity — and no one would ever know.

Legolas seemed to read the dark emotion in Aragorn's eyes and recoiled further. Retreating into a corner, he snatched up the tunic that lay near his feet, and wrapped it around his waist, salvaging some decency. When his eyes met Aragorn's, they were filled with fear and hopelessness.

"What would _you_ ask of me?" Legolas spoke in a quavering voice, frayed with bitterness. "Do you wish for me to pleasure you, as well?"

Aragorn's vision blurred slightly — for a moment he saw only the colour of bare skin, of flesh laid before him, ready for the taking. The quiet defiance in Legolas's words ignited a flame within him, and he strode forward, trapping Legolas against the wall.

"Do you taunt me, Legolas?" The heated passion in Aragorn's voice surprised even himself. "Or are _you_ asking me for something?"

"No!" Legolas said immediately. He looked at Aragorn, plainly scared, utterly helpless; his voice dropped to a desperate whisper. "No, please... I was not taunting you. Please do not..."

"Do not what?" As Aragorn spoke, he met the elf's harrowed, tear-shimmering gaze.

Looking into Legolas's eyes, which were haunted with sadness and unfathomable pain, struck a deep chord within Aragorn. His vision cleared, and the sudden desire evaporated as quickly as it had flared up. Now he saw only Legolas's fragile, tainted beauty, and the ravaged soul that ached beneath. An overwhelming sense of sympathy and remorse washed through him.

"I am not going to hurt you," Aragorn said quietly. 

Legolas stared at Aragorn in amazement. He said nothing, but the relief and gratitude in his gaze spoke volumes. 

Aragorn stepped away from the elf. He was appalled at himself for thinking of Legolas in that manner, even briefly. It was like a swift glimpse into a dark mirror of cruelty; an ominous reminder that he, too, was human. 

With growing dismay he surveyed the damage that had been wrought upon the elf's body. Crescent-shaped marks on Legolas's waist told of cruel fingernails digging deep; and to Aragorn's horror, he saw traces of blood staining Legolas's inner thighs. Besides the fact that elf-flesh was silkier and more easily bruised, the penetration must have been forceful enough to break skin. Aragorn tried not to think about what had befallen Legolas in the heated moments just past — but the images still rose in his mind, unbidden. 

He took a blanket and draped it over Legolas's shoulders, covering him, and gestured for him to sit down on the bed. The elf moved as if he were trying to stifle the pain with each step he took.

Aragorn left the king's chambers to retrieve some healing salve and athelas leaves, which he kept in his own quarters. He also issued orders for a set of new garments to be brought. This time, Aragorn specified robes of dark green — for he perceived that to dress Legolas in white would be a heartless mockery.

Aragorn returned with a basin of water and a cloth for Legolas to clean himself. The elf carefully scrubbed away the uncleanness that clung to his body, and then quickly dressed in the new garments. The robes hung loosely on his slim frame as he settled down, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. He watched Aragorn mix the salve with crushed leaves of athelas; finally, he spoke. 

"How did you know the meaning of my name?" he asked.

Aragorn looked up. "I understand the Elvish tongue," he answered, but elaborated no further. He brought the salve to Legolas, and gently smoothed it on the elf's wrists, which had been abraded by the leather bands that the hunters had bound him with, and made worse by the chafing of the sash.

"I wish that athelas could also heal the wounds of the soul," Legolas said quietly. "Alas, that is not so."

Aragorn paused, and looked deeply into Legolas's eyes. "You are suffering greatly in spirit."

"Yes." Legolas whispered; the word left his lips like a lone snowflake falling to the ground.

Aragorn frowned slightly; he remembered something he had heard before, of the nature of elves: that they would die if they were raped. 

"But it is said that your kindred will perish if they are... violated." Aragorn halted, and watched Legolas's reaction carefully. "I feared that the king did not know this about your race, for it is not the same way with ours. I am relieved, to some extent, that you still live."

"Yes; but perhaps there can be found flaws in the fundaments of nature," Legolas said, his voice heartbreakingly soft. "You have heard truly: when we are taken against our will, we will die. Yet maybe your king knew this too well..." he trailed off, and a shadow of pain fell across his face. "For even the forced derivation of pleasure annuls the premise of assault. And thus, I still live." The elf fell silent; he bowed his head, and said no more.

A terrible realisation dawned on Aragorn as he understood the truth of the matter — and it was more devastating than he could have imagined. For it was out of mercy that elves were allowed to let their spirits flee their bodies as an escape from a life in torment; but Legolas had forfeited this. If ever possible, it was worse than the fate of the Ringwraiths, who were cursed to be neither living nor dead; but now, Legolas was doomed to live with the brutal memory of the violation he had suffered. 

They spoke no further words as Aragorn finished dressing Legolas's wounds. Yet in the silence there was some comfort, which Legolas could feel even though it was not articulated; the touch of Aragorn's hands on his skin was tender and careful. Legolas closed his eyes — in the tumult of raw emotions, both healing and hurtful, a single tear escaped, and coursed down his face.

The sudden light caress of Aragorn's fingers against his cheek made Legolas's eyes flash open, startled. Leaning closer to him, Aragorn gently brushed away the tear, leaving a moist silver mark glistening on Legolas's cheek. 

"There may still come a healing yet, if you do not let go of hope," Aragorn said gently. "Perhaps one day, you will find the athelas for your soul."

"In the darkness, it is hard to seek what is so rare and elusive," Legolas whispered back, his voice choked. 

"Yet perhaps you need not look far for comfort." Aragorn straightened, and looked at Legolas pensively. "Maybe the weed of healing grows hidden at your very feet." 

Legolas dropped his gaze, and said nothing. But Aragorn knew not the power of his comfort — for it was in his gentle words of hope that Legolas found the strength to endure, and the will to carry on.

  


* * *

_Note: References made to 'Laws and Customs Among the Eldar,' footnote 5; published in the book Morgoth's Ring: The First Part of the Later Silmarillion, edited by Christopher Tolkien. This tells of how Elves die when they are raped: "For this was wholly against their nature, and one so forced would have rejected bodily life."_

  


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**Feedback? I'd love to hear it!**   
  



	5. Chapter Five

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter Five  
by Rhysenn **   
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: Aragorn confides in Gandalf; and Boromir has something else to bestow upon his elf-slave.   
  


* * *

  
  


Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter Five**

  
  


The next morning, Gandalf sat in the steward's quarters, listening attentively to Aragorn's account of the eventful Spring Feast the night before. More than all else, Aragorn spoke of Legolas, and the humiliation and cruelty that the elf had endured at the hands of King Boromir.

"It is wrong that King Boromir should take an Elf, one of the First Kindred, to be a personal slave to his own lust," Aragorn said hotly, as he paced back and forth. "I do not rebel against the king's judgement; but in this case, I refuse to favour it."

"It would be best if you kept your opinions to yourself," Gandalf advised. "For you can do nothing; lest your words against the king reach his ears, and portend more trouble both for you and Legolas." He paused, and shook his head ruefully. "Spring Feast was yesterday, you say? April the sixth?"

"Yes," Aragorn replied. "Is that of any significance?"

"Indeed it is," Gandalf answered gravely. "It made the festivities doubly cruel for the elf — for the sixth day of April marks the Elves' New Year, a tradition that has long faded in the memory of Men in Gondor, but which the elves always hold dear in their hearts."

Aragorn looked shocked, then dismayed; several layers of emotion filtered through his expression.

"Of course," he said in a low voice, almost to himself. "The Elves' New Year falls on the sixth of April. How could I forget? In Rivendell it was always celebrated grandly. The fountains were lit with the sparkling lights of stars, and petals adorned the pathways; the waterfalls gave forth mists of silver, which wafted like curtains of silk around the pavilion..." Aragorn broke off, as if the tide of awakening memories was too much to take; he bowed his head slightly, and looked worn and sad.

"Many years have passed since you shared in the celebrations of the elves," Gandalf said gently. "You have wandered far and wide in the years between then and now — you must not feel guilty for letting a tradition that is not your own slip from your mind. As long as you do not forget it altogether."

"It has been a long time," Aragorn said, his voice almost a whisper. "Yet Rivendell is still a place crystallised in my mind, its beauty written in my heart. There lies the only place I have ever called my home, and it holds every beautiful memory of my days of youth." He paused. "Tell me, Gandalf — when did you last ride through Imladris, and how fares Master Elrond and his household?"

"Elrond and his people still live in peace; fragile, yet enduring." Gandalf appeared thoughtful, and there was a kindly light in his eyes as he looked directly at Aragorn. "He asks often of you, as a father would want to hear news of his son — but he knows the burden you have to carry alone, and has faith that you will walk the right path. I last spoke with him about six months ago, when I made a detour to Rivendell to help an old friend make some travel arrangements."

Something else occurred to Aragorn. 

"Have you passed through Mirkwood in recent years?" he asked. "You did not seem to recognise Legolas when you first saw him; and neither did he appear to know you."

Gandalf shook his head. "I have often passed by Mirkwood, but I have not entered it in many years. King Thranduil holds the fort against stirring evil in his woodland country, and the Wood-elves prefer to remain on their own, welcoming few visitors. Only rarely do I encounter one of Thranduil's messengers to Rivendell, or Lórien — but I have never seen Legolas before."

There was a brief silence; then Aragorn spoke pensively. "What think you of Legolas, Gandalf?"

"Ah," Gandalf said, with a knowing look in his eye. "But it matters not — for I do not always dwell in this city, although I often reside here to share your company. It only matters what _you_ think."

"I think he is beautiful," Aragorn admitted to his old friend. "A beauty that goes beyond physical attractiveness, of which he has no lack — but he also has a light within him that shines forth and enchants everything he does: the way he speaks, the look in his eyes, the movement of his hands."

"You seem smitten with the elf," Gandalf observed. 

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest, but words failed him. He halted, and forced himself to confront the true reason why he had been feeling miserable ever since Legolas had been taken away from the feast the night before, and why the gnawing sensation that seemed to penetrate his bones was suddenly made sharper at the mere mention of the elf.

"Smitten is the wrong word," he finally said. "But there is certainly something about Legolas that I feel... drawn towards. Perhaps it is the calling of my upbringing, even though I have carelessly allowed memory to lapse — Legolas reminds me of how fair and graceful his kindred are, and how they love nature and see so much beauty in life."

"Watch yourself, Aragorn," Gandalf warned. "It is one thing to appreciate beauty, especially of spirit; but entirely another to let your gaze linger upon one who belongs to someone else, and can never be yours to have."

"It is an irony," Aragorn said wryly. "Every life needs one." 

"And from such ironies spring bitterness and pain that will never cease to follow you," Gandalf said solemnly; he regarded Aragorn with keen concern. "Be strong, Aragorn — do not let it break you down."

  


* * * * *

  


Boromir gave Legolas leave to wander within the boundaries of the palace during daylight hours. Legolas was eager to leave the bedchamber; he wanted to get away from the sleepless agony that room brought, and sought a quiet place to find solace and much needed rest on his own.

But Legolas soon found this was as impossible as finding tenderness at Boromir's hands. 

As he walked through the courtyards, he was well aware of the officials watching him pass by; and the way some of them looked at him made Legolas's skin crawl. Having witnessed the way Boromir had treated him during the Spring Feast, the officials of the palace knew all too well the services that Legolas was expected to provide — and although they did not dare to lay a hand on him, leering and mocking words were free for all.

"Lost your way, elf?" A man in uniform suddenly stepped into his path, blocking his way. He gave Legolas a sneering smile. "I could show you to the bedchambers."

Legolas backed away from him, alarmed; but another two officials appeared, and he was cornered.

"Yes, Bregor," laughed one of them, letting his eyes run lasciviously over Legolas's body. "You are in line for a promotion soon, are you not? Perhaps you could ask the king for a night with this lovely elf instead." He reached out, as if to stroke the elf's face.

Legolas flinched away. "Do not touch me!" 

"Oh?" Bregor arched an eyebrow; he stepped closer to Legolas, hemming him in. "Do you speak to him with such insolence? You have a great deal of foolish courage, slave."

Legolas looked around wildly, but the three men had surrounded him. He could not slither away; and although he could probably fight them off, as a slave he could not strike back. He flattened himself against the wall that he was backed up against, and bit his lip in helpless despair.

"Look at him," Bregor mocked. "He stands so willingly — were he not the king's bed-slave, I reckon that he would allow all three of us to take our turn with him right here, up against the wall. Such a pretty whore."

"I wonder if King Boromir will tire of him soon," the third official mused, casting the others a knowing look. "When he does, we could ask the king to lend him to us. I'm sure that we could teach this elf a thing or two."

"Yes, I have heard that it can be even more enjoyable to lie with a male elf than a woman of our own kind," Bregor added, relishing the look of caged fear in Legolas's eyes. "For their skin is smooth like silk, and their flesh soft and tender, as well as deliciously tight." They all roared with laughter.

"Leave him alone, Bregor."

Bregor turned, startled, to find Aragorn standing behind him. 

"Ah, Aragorn." He gave the steward a superficial smile. "Good day to you."

"The king will not be pleased if he sees you treat Legolas in such a manner." Aragorn fixed Bregor with a hard glare; from the corner of his eye, he saw the immense relief on Legolas's face.

"We were just giving him a personal welcome to our city," Bregor replied breezily. "And as steward of the household, you should be informed that this elf-slave spoke to us with blatant disrespect. He must be punished."

"I will deal with him from here," Aragorn replied steadily. "I am sure that other more important duties must now demand your attention."

Bregor's eyes flashed, but he had nothing to retort. "Verily so," he said shortly, as he and his companions turned and strode off.

Aragorn watched the departure of the three officials with narrowed eyes. Then he turned back to Legolas, who looked very shaken.

"You have to be careful," Aragorn told him. "Do not wander to quiet corners of the palace on your own. It is not safe."

"But I do not want to remain in the king's chambers during the day," Legolas answered; there was a pained sadness in his clear eyes. "Where then shall I go?"

Aragorn considered for a moment. "There is a couch in my quarters where you can rest without being disturbed by anyone else in the palace. Do you want to go there?"  


Legolas hesitated briefly, then said, "Yes. Please." 

Aragorn nodded, and led Legolas to his quarters. The room was spacious, although more modest than the king's lavish chambers. The main door opened into a broad study, with a waxed oak table and matching armchair. A couch cushioned in dark blue velvet sat across from the table; away to the left an open archway led into the inner bedchamber, where the steward slept.

Legolas sat down on the edge of the couch. He felt a fleeting fear shiver through him as Aragorn shut the doors behind them — he had developed a dread of enclosed rooms, and being alone with a Man in his chambers naturally sent a chill through him. His mind was still reeling from the mocking words that the three palace officials had hurled at him: _Lovely elf. Pretty whore. We could teach him a thing or two..._

"Ignore them, Legolas." Aragorn's voice was even.

Legolas looked at him. "How did things come to be this way?" he asked softly. "Where power is derived only through another's humiliation, where one has no qualms about taking what belongs to another? Is this the race that you pledge your allegiance to?"

"It is not a choice." A tremor quivered through Aragorn's voice. "I owe loyalty to my own kind — and even though they have fallen to decadence, I will not cease to hope."

Legolas tilted his head thoughtfully. "I have heard an old saying: To hope for what you can never have is a wound that will be healed only in death."

Aragorn levelled Legolas's gaze. "Then I will die trying."

  


* * * * *

  


In the days that followed, Legolas frequently sought out Aragorn's company, and it was the only time that brought him comfort and some measure of happiness. But they never once spoke of what went on in the king's bedchamber at night. Since Aragorn had been entrusted with the duty of seeing to the elf's well-being, the king saw nothing more to Legolas's time spent with the steward of his house.

Boromir did, however, notice the lingering glances and suggestive remarks that Legolas received from the other men in the palace each time he passed by. The king was proud of his beautiful possession, but he was not pleased at the unwanted attention Legolas attracted. No one actually dared lay a hand on his slave; but to dissuade his courtiers from ideas above their station, Boromir resolved to mark the elf as his in an unequivocal way.

And so Boromir called for a brief assembly in the royal courtyard. When all the palace officials were gathered, he called Legolas to his side.

"I have a gift for my slave," Boromir announced; Legolas showed no expression, and kept his eyes to the floor. Boromir drew out a box, and opened it; he carefully removed what lay inside, and held it up for the assembly to see.

It was a collar. About an inch wide, it was wrought of fine gold, which shone brilliantly in the sunlight. Words were engraved along the outer rim: Legolas's name, identifying him as property of Boromir son of Denethor, King of Anorién. Jewels were set along the outer band in the spaces between the words; they glinted like star-eyes. There was a lock on the back of the collar, where the two halves snapped together.

Boromir signalled for Legolas to come near to him, and he slipped the collar around the elf's neck. The lock clicked shut, and the collar was a good fit — it was not loose, and held firmly around Legolas's neck, but yet not so tight that it marked his flesh.

Aragorn could not believe his eyes. A slave collar? This was rare even in Minas Tirith; and the fine quality of the collar only made the mockery of it all the more stark.

"It is a perfect fit." Boromir stepped back and surveyed Legolas with approval. "A fine adornment for one so fair — and a fair warning to all to keep their hands off my property." There was a titter of apprehensive laughter in response; the audience perceived that Boromir was serious about his threat.

"And as for you," Boromir turned to Legolas, and a flicker of intense emotion crossed the king's face. "Know the worth of your beauty and the pleasure you bring me — for no slave in this land has ever received such an expensive gift. But let this also be a reminder of whom you belong to."

Legolas remained silent, and kept his eyes downcast.

"Do you hear my words?" Boromir repeated meaningfully, an ominous tone creeping into his voice.

"Yes... master." Legolas's voice was strained.

"Very well." Boromir was satisfied. The king reached for Legolas once more — fingering the silky locks of his hair, he drew the elf closer, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Aragorn found himself unable to look away. There was a sharp ache twisting inside him, piercing deep as he watched Legolas allow the king to ravish him. Aragorn reminded himself that it was for the best that Legolas yielded; but the thought did not ease him.

After the officials left the court and Legolas had been dismissed, Faramir remained. He had a slight frown on his face, and he leaned in to speak to his older brother; Aragorn, who was standing just next to them, could hear the conversation.

"A collar, Boromir?" Faramir asked. "Is it necessary to label him in such a manner, even if he is yours?"

"It is a warning to anyone who might be bold enough to lay his hand on my elf," Boromir replied. "And Legolas should by now realise that it is fruitless to resist any further. I have broken his stubbornness." 

"That you certainly have," Faramir answered in a reproving tone. "And you have also broken his spirit."

__

Broken, yes — but not ruined, Aragorn thought to himself grimly. _Not yet. _

  


* * * * *

  


Legolas wore a deep grey tunic when he came into Aragorn's quarters the next day. Aragorn glanced up, and noticed how the dark fabric brought out the fair colour of Legolas's hair; but his skin seemed pale compared to the over-rich gold of the collar around his neck. 

The elf settled down on the couch, sitting perfectly still, with a unique posture that made him look both poised and relaxed at the same time. There was a hollow bleakness in his eyes, which bore the mark of the night even during the merciful day. His gaze presently fell on Aragorn's bow, which was standing propped against the far wall; and a light returned to his eyes.

"May I inspect your bow?" Legolas asked, a rare eagerness in his voice.

Aragorn hesitated for a moment. A bow was a weapon, and no steward would, in his right mind, allow a slave to lay hold of it. But there was no quiver of arrows lying nearby, and Aragorn reasoned that there was little danger in letting the elf touch the bow.

Legolas noticed Aragorn's hesitancy. 

"Do not worry," he said swiftly. "I do not wish to cause you any harm — and there are no arrows around. But I have great love for archery, and the wood-turning of your bow is of high quality. Only the bowstring is too loose: for a taut string gives the arrow a steadier path." 

"Ah, yes," Aragorn said with a small smile; he relented, and gestured that Legolas could pick up the bow. "You are from Mirkwood, and the most skilled of elven archers hail from that region."

"I had a reputation among my kinsfolk for arrows that always met their target," Legolas answered, with a note of pride in his voice; he carefully lifted the bow, relishing the feel of it in his hands.

"That is fine praise," Aragorn said. "Given your talent, you must have been one of the best archers in King Thranduil's service."

"Yes." Legolas hesitated, and his voice faltered before he added softly, "I am also his son."

Aragorn's jaw dropped. "What did you say?"

"Thranduil is my father," Legolas said quietly. "I am his youngest son."

There was a heartbeat of silence.

"You are a prince of Mirkwood?" Aragorn stared at Legolas incredulously. "Why did you never speak of this before?"

"What use would that have served?" Legolas raised his eyes to Aragorn's, and they were filled with pain and frustration. "If I had told my captors that I was of royal blood, they would only have demanded a higher price for me. I will not cheapen the worth of my lineage by using it to negotiate with those cruel folk — at any rate, my freedom was already beyond my control."

Aragorn's brow furrowed, and he was profoundly puzzled — for, unknown to Legolas, there had already been concern over the possibility of Elves coming down south to Minas Tirith, to war with them and reclaim their captive kin. Boromir had shrewdly forseen this, and had posted hidden guards and sent out scouts to gather news of any such attack drawing near to their city. But no alarm had been raised in the past two weeks.

"But if you are Thranduil's son," Aragorn said, with a small frown, "then why has he not sent forth the hosts of Mirkwood to find you, even searching to the corners of Middle-earth and leaving no stone unturned, if that was what it took to get you back?"

"You speak truly," Legolas said; the shadow of anguish in his eyes darkened. "My father will stop at nothing to rescue me — if only he knows that I have been captured."

"He does not know you are missing?" Aragorn asked, astounded. 

"No, he does not." Legolas's voice wavered, but he forced himself to keep speaking in an even tone, although it still trembled slightly. "For my father had given me leave to travel to Fangorn to explore the truth in the songs that are sung of that ancient woodland. Although he was reluctant to let me go by myself, I went forth alone; I had intended to take the pass through the Mountains of Mirkwood, and strike the Old Forest Road — but I was waylaid in the valley, and outnumbered." He halted, and there was great sadness in his eyes. "Even now I think my father still assumes that I am on the journey — and since Fangorn is a great distance away, he will not expect me back home for several months."

"So this is the truth of the matter." Aragorn's brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I often wondered how your disappearance evaded your kinsfolk's notice for so long."

"I rue the day I set out on my own, against my father's better judgement," Legolas said sorrowfully. "I enjoy solitude, and when I journey through uncharted lands alone, my senses are heightened in the peaceful quiet all around." He paused, and lowered his eyes. "I sought adventure — but now I only wish for deliverance."

"Deliverance?" Aragorn shook his head regretfully. "The king has gone to great lengths to ensure that you shall remain here — guards constantly watch the route along the Anduin, and sentinels are stationed at the Great Gate. All other ways that you might fare to escape through the City Wall are bolted, and only a few high officials of the court hold a set of keys to them. Minas Tirith is not called 'The Tower of Guard' for no reason."

"You need not warn me," Legolas said bitterly. "Your king frequently reminds me of the dire consequences of escape."

Aragorn noticed that Legolas always spoke of Boromir as '_your_ king' — as if in his eyes, Boromir was too despicable even to be conferred a general title of 'the king,' with the oblique respect inherent in that. But there was little to wonder at this subtle insult, a slave's last defiance — for Aragorn was often shocked to see the red marks of cruel handprints on Legolas's wrists and arms, and he did not even want to think of the bruises the elf's clothes concealed. Boromir was a man of war — he was not known for his gentleness, or restraint.

The elf said no more. Holding the bow in his hands, he seemed as if he were caught in a beautiful and sad memory of his homeland, of the life he once had; and Aragorn did not disturb him. As if walking in a dream, Legolas went over to the couch and sat down, letting his fingers run lovingly over the carved wood contours of the bow on his lap. The colourful jewels on the collar around his neck glinted like a harsh rainbow in the morning sun. 

  
  


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**Feedback? I'd love to hear it!**   
  



	6. Chapter Six

  
**Through Bitter Chains, Chapter Six  
by Rhysenn **   
  
Rating: R  
Pairings: Aragorn/Legolas, Boromir/Legolas   
Category: Semi-AU, First-Time, Romance, Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Slave-fic   
  
Summary: Legolas and Aragorn steal a few moments, which seem to make all the difference.   
  


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Through Bitter Chains

**Chapter Six**

  
  


A pair of messengers from Rohan had arrived in Minas Tirith at dawn, heralding the arrival of King Éomer later that same day. The newly crowned King of the Mark was on his royal progress through Gondor, having already visited Dol Amroth, Osgiliath and Lossarnach. The delegation from Rohan would stay a night in Minas Tirith, before returning to Edoras.

If the journey proceeded without delay, Aragorn estimated that King Éomer would arrive at the city by late afternoon. There was much preparation to be done — adequate lodging in the palace for the royal host had been arranged, and a special feast planned for that evening. However, Aragorn was looking forward to Éomer's visit, for they were dear friends; they had known each other since the time Aragorn rode with the Rohirrim many years ago, and they shared a deep mutual respect. 

Aragorn went to the king's private study to speak with him about the arrangements. Boromir was there, his brow furrowed as he reviewed a scroll in his hands; what appeared to be the monthly harvest report, judging from the displeasure on his face. A frost unlooked-for had cut through the pale warmth of Spring, blighting flowers on branches and sprouting grains. Harvest would be thin this summer.

Boromir looked up, and saw Aragorn waiting. With a brisk smile, he waved his steward in as he put the scroll away and signalled for the doors to be closed behind them. Royal matters were always discussed in private.

"My lord," Aragorn greeted; he spoke so out of habit, of late, rather than out of respect. "I have spoken with the court officials who will be present at the palace to welcome King Éomer and his company when they arrive. The best stables have been cleared for the horses of Rohan, and the stalls decorated with banners."

"Very good." Boromir was pleased. "Spare no expense for the Rohirrim. It has been two winters since I rode to Edoras, and their hospitality was impressive indeed. Now that we are the hosts, I want their stay in Minas Tirith to be no less than exquisite."

"The dishes for the feast you have already approved," Aragorn continued. "Preparations are underway as we speak, and —"

"The elf," Boromir interrupted curtly; he missed the tension that tightened the expression on Aragorn's face. "He must be magnificently arrayed for the feast — I would not conceal the living treasure of Minas Tirith from our honoured guests."

Aragorn steeled himself before he gave a reply. 

"That might not be the best course of action, my lord," he said quietly, his voice hard with an inscrutable emotion. "Perhaps it would be more prudent to excuse Legolas from the dinner feast."

"Why should I?" Arrogance sparked in Boromir's voice, and he regarded Aragorn incredulously. "Legolas is a prize of our land, and I dare wager that no one in Gondor owns a possession as fair and beautiful as he is. And surely Éomer would have heard that we leased Ithilien in exchange for something of great value — greater than land itself, which men have been known to fight and even die for."

Boromir halted for a moment; he looked almost pensive. "And I have no doubt that men would die to have Legolas. Even just once."

"Rohan has enacted no law legalising slavery in their lands," Aragorn said, in earnest endeavour. "They will not understand."

"The men of Rohan are warriors, Aragorn," Boromir said, a smile curling his proud mouth. "They are familiar with bloodlust, the use of force to gain what they desire — and most of all, they will understand the seductive power of dominion over living flesh." 

From the impassioned tone of Boromir's words, Aragorn could see the king felt every heated pulse of that twisted pleasure, which he spoke of with such praise; it made Aragorn's skin crawl. 

Boromir's dark eyes were lit with excited fire as he continued, "They will admire my slave. They will want him, they will feel themselves _clench_ —" Boromir gripped his fist into a tight ball for emphasis, "with burning need, as their eyes run over my elf's perfect body, the same way their hands also yearn to." 

Boromir paused, and smiled grimly. "And they will know that he is mine."

The silence was strung with an unbearable tension; fired by the intoxication of taking without asking, the filthy heat of lust.

Finally Aragorn spoke. "How will inciting your guests to such jealousy contribute to their comfort?" He swallowed without meaning to. "There is much bitterness in yearning for what belongs to another. Surely that should not be our gift of hospitality to them."

"There are many palace slaves, male and female, with which they can take their ease," Boromir answered dismissively. "No doubt the foremost intention of this dinner feast is to celebrate King Éomer's ascension to the throne — but of equal concern should be the enhancement of the status of Minas Tirith in the eyes of our royal visitors." 

The wild glint was still apparent in Boromir's eye. "Edoras still has not passed legislation on slavery in the lands of Rohan. Their royals have not experienced the pleasure of holding complete control over another being, the bending a slave to their will in any way they please. But tonight, they shall see how wondrous it can be to own a beautiful creature like my elf, and this will awaken a desire in them to have slaves of their own — but of course, never as exquisite as Legolas." 

"Not all men are ruled by their physical instincts," Aragorn answered; his voice faltered almost imperceptibly. "However natural these may be in the presence of such beauty."

Boromir gave a short laugh. "Ah, noble Aragorn. I am aware of your choice to take no personal slave of your own..." he trailed off suggestively, "but I have always wondered if this was because you preferred variety without liability." He grinned broadly. "Come now, we talk honestly as between two friends. Do I speak truly?"

Aragorn stared at Boromir with barely concealed disbelief. How the king construed his refusal to own a slave as a sign of his desiring wanton indulgence without restraint was beyond Aragorn's reckoning. 

"No, lord," Aragorn replied, his tone carefully wiped clean of emotion to reveal nothing. "I choose not to hold a servant to my bidding because I see no requirement for such." Not entirely true, of course, but Aragorn had more shrewdness than to voice his loathing about a practice that the king so clearly relished. "The palace is abundantly served by capable workers, and on every occasion my needs are promptly fulfilled."

"So do you mean to say," Boromir quirked an eyebrow, amusement twitching on the sides of his mouth, "that your... _every_ need is well met?"

Aragorn immediately understood what the king really meant; he cleared his throat, and felt heat burn on his cheeks.

"My opinion is that such... intimate bonds," he reproached himself for hesitating on the words, "should be shared under the premise of a more enduring relationship than merely the taking of a night's ease."

"Well!" Boromir clapped Aragorn genially on the shoulder with a rumble of deep laughter. "How very noble, and the most ludicrous thing I have ever heard. Let us hope that the Rohirrim do not share your opinions!" As if on an afterthought, he added, "But then, men of war think differently." 

Aragorn bristled inwardly at the insinuation; his fists were clenched tightly by his sides, and his knuckles felt as if they would split from being stretched white-thin. He forced himself not to respond, as Boromir resumed pacing in front of him.

"King Éomer would likely want to consolidate support from his people, and what better way than to grant them indulgence as a way of life?" He paused. "And just imagine the immense potential for additional trade between Minas Tirith and the kingdom of Rohan! They will have a great demand for thralls; upon which I am sure we can negotiate lucrative deals beneficial for all parties involved."

"Legolas is one of the Elves — they are ill at ease in a hall of stone, enclosed and cavernous, filled with people," Aragorn tried once again, although his powers of dissuasion seemed to have no effect on the king. "And the presence of strangers may unsettle him. There is far too much at stake to take unnecessary chances." 

Boromir's lips twisted in wry deprecation; and for a moment, his hard expression softened slightly. Aragorn felt a rise of hope that Legolas might be spared another humiliating experience of being paraded in front of a hall full of Men, who saw him as little more than a pretty possession to be used for pleasure.

Boromir's pleasure.

A lump forced itself into Aragorn's throat, and he closed his eyes briefly. It hurt, somewhere deep within him, and he wanted it to stop, to stop tormenting him with the yearning for what could never be his.

"Prepare the elf for the feast tonight." Boromir's resolute command shattered the tentative hope, and Aragorn's spirits plummeted; he had to control himself from reacting out of his frustration and helpless anger. 

"I fear this may be folly," Aragorn pressed on, unable to relinquish this last chance to save Legolas some suffering. He dropped his voice slightly. "You know how Legolas resisted you during Spring Feast, even in front of all the grandees. This may be a celebratory visit for Éomer and his host, but should anything go poorly, the political repercussions could be serious indeed." Aragorn fixed Boromir with a steady look. "It is not worth the risk."

"There is no cause for worry," Boromir answered confidently. "Yes, the elf made an embarrassment of himself on his first night in Minas Tirith; but since then I have taught him obedience — the meaning of complete submission, as well as the pleasure that can be found in being mine."

__

Pleasure? Aragorn only just choked back the enraged splutter that rose in his throat, bitter as bile. In his mind flashed the fresh memories of Legolas's wounds, from the red streaks on the insides of his thighs that first night, to the dark crease of rope burn on Legolas's wrists only this morning. 

"It is not as it seems, of course," Boromir continued; and Aragorn was startled. Had he been that transparent, or did Boromir feel the need to justify what he knew Aragorn would have seen in the cold light of each morning? "Legolas has more than his share of pleasure every night. And he never fails to communicate his enjoyment." Boromir laughed. "I should consider sound proofing the chamber doors; the guards on night duty must surely be embarrassed."

Aragorn felt distinctly sick. He wanted to say something, to tell the king that hurting Legolas the way he did was _not_ pleasure, it could not be; but then a voice at the back of his mind reminded him that he might be wrong. Aragorn knew of how some people relished the kiss of whips and the embrace of chains; who was he to say that Legolas did not find secret, sinful pleasure in the taste of pain? After all, the elf never spoke of his experiences in the king's bed; except for the evidence of dark bruises or teeth marks, Aragorn had no way to know for certain.

Except when he looked into Legolas's eyes. Then he knew without a doubt that a broken spirit could not possibly have enjoyed the breaking.

"The elf's behaviour at the feast will not be a cause for concern," Boromir stated affirmatively. "He will perform exactly as I demand of him. After all," a thin smile turned his mouth upwards, "Legolas has had plenty of practice."

Aragorn's blunt fingernails cut into the flesh of his palm. The sting felt delicious. With a jolt, Aragorn realised the powerfully numbing intoxication of pain. Perhaps Legolas had discovered this as well.

"Ready my slave for the feast," Boromir commanded. "Dress him in the finest; that is what he deserves."

"I will see to that at once," Aragorn managed stiffly. As he departed from the king's study, Aragorn glanced back over his shoulder — Boromir had picked up the scroll and was once more absorbed in it. 

At that precise moment, Aragorn felt the heated stirrings of some great, terrible emotion, black as if charred by a flame of pain, too long closed within the palm of one's hand. And he knew exactly what it was.

Hate was a dangerous thing.

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"Please do not make me do this!" Legolas's voice was filled with pleading. "I beg of you. Please!"

"The host from Rohan will only be here for the dinner feast." Aragorn tried to calm the distraught elf. "And I promise you that I will not let them lay a hand on you."  


"It is not them I fear!" Legolas's eyes sparked with twin fires of frustration and anguish. "And you cannot protect me from everything."

"Do not make this harder than it already is, Legolas," Aragorn said despairingly. "It is not my choice — the king has commanded it."

"Then your king deserves no such title!" Legolas exploded, unable to contain his emotion any longer.

"Be quiet!" Aragorn hissed; the two-leaved doors to his quarters were open, and he spun around in fear that someone had overheard the elf's words. The doorway was empty; Aragorn strode over to check the corridors as well. No one was there. Relieved, he closed the doors behind him, and turned back to Legolas.

"Do not openly speak that way of the king," Aragorn cautioned firmly. "You will be punished if you are heard."

There was a moment of silence, like a heartbeat of eternity.

"Such a man is one you call your king." Legolas's expression hardened. "Why do you still serve him?"

"I serve Gondor," Aragorn replied staunchly.

"Among my kindred, a king will go to war and ride at the helm of his host; he is willing to die if it means that even the smallest one of his people will be saved." Legolas paused significantly, then added, "But I suppose that such is not _your_ way of life."

Aragorn advanced towards him so abruptly that even Legolas was startled; and there was a sudden fire kindled in the steward's grey eyes.

"A true king of Men will ride into battle, and fight for those he loves until his dying breath," Aragorn said intensely. "Do not mock the culture of a kindred different from yours, Legolas — there is much that you do not know about our race."

"Perhaps I do not. So tell me," Legolas said softly, "is the loss of beauty also part of your way of life?"

Aragorn was thrown by Legolas's question. "What do you mean?"

"You live in a fortress of stone — a prison hewn from a cliff of solid rock. Gates rear up wherever you look, and there are seven levels of metal teeth dividing your city. There are no wooded forest lands, and even the small palace gardens are constantly clipped and prevented from thriving. The only tree in sight is a grotesque, withered mockery of all things living, as it stands dead in the middle of your courtyard." Legolas paused, and drew a deep breath. "The only use left for it is to serve as a reminder of the decay of this city, that once must have been great — but yet, no one pays it any heed."

Legolas broke off; Aragorn said nothing in reply for a long while. However, when he raised his eyes to meet the elf's, in them was a new spirit forged of old pain and new hope.

"Do you think I do not see the ugliness masked behind the White Tower, and everything it now stands for?" Aragorn's voice was low and fervent. "I am not blind, Legolas, nor ignorant — Minas Tirith has fallen into its own trap of decadence and selfishness. But I have travelled far and witnessed many things, and have come to know the bitter histories of Men and Elves alike. Through it all, I have learned that there can be no perfect world to live in."

"Men are cynical," Legolas replied. "That is their folly."

"Elves are stubborn," Aragorn said. "And that is theirs. They refuse to let go of the golden days of their ancestors, which has long since been lost — they spend their time on Middle-earth in sorrow and regret, yearning for the Sea."

"If that is so," Legolas countered, "then the doom of Men is that they forget too easily. But maybe we are not that different after all. For we share the same fate — to watch things around us fall apart, and yet have no power to halt it."

"But I believe that there will come a time when Middle-earth will change for the better," Aragorn said fervently. "If those to whom this fairer fate is entrusted have the strength to carry out the task appointed to them." He paused, and sighed heavily. "But who can speak for the future? Right now, we are left to live for the day, to fight for ourselves and those we hold dear."

Aragorn stopped speaking; and only then did he realise that as he spoke, he had drawn closer and closer to the elf — now they stood merely inches apart. Aragorn found himself looking deeply into Legolas's eyes — it was like gazing into the vast night, seeing the stars shining from a remote distance, unwavering lights in the darkness.

"Why do you think I took it upon myself to heal you personally when you were in pain that night of Spring Feast?" Aragorn's voice was quiet, but in the stillness of the enclosed chamber it was clear as a bell. "Did you not realise that you were the exception, rather than the norm?"

A new light of understanding dawned in Legolas's eyes, and his expression softened, like the edge of a starlit sky giving way to gentle rain; a single word fell from his lips. "Why?"

"Because I wanted to," Aragorn answered simply; the tenderness in his gaze spoke more eloquently than he could ever have voiced.

"You are not like your people," Legolas said in a soft whisper, not breaking their intense contact. "You are far more noble — and there is a passion in you, which is akin to the spirit that we sing of in our elven-lore."

"I have dwelt with your kindred before." Aragorn's voice wavered slightly. "But it was a long time ago."

"Then do you still think of the beauty you once knew?" Legolas asked; there was tone of desperate, heart-rending hopefulness in his voice. "Can you still remember what it means to love?"

And at that moment, it seemed to Aragorn that the shadow that hung like a pall over his mind was lifted; everything suddenly became clear, and gazing at Legolas he remembered the innocence and joy he once knew... and so much more. 

Fully aware of what he was doing, he stepped forward and kissed Legolas.

He felt Legolas stiffen, but the elf did not pull away. Aragorn placed his hands on Legolas's shoulders, and gently pulled him closer, until he felt the warmth of the elf's body against his own; he was also sure that Legolas could feel the rapid beating of his heart. 

Then gradually, Legolas began to respond; his lips parted to receive Aragorn's tongue as it flickered out against his. Aragorn kissed him slowly, taking his time to savour the exquisite taste of the elf's mouth, not forcing him to deepen the kiss any more than he was willing to.

Holding Legolas and kissing him was more than just an exhilarating sensation; it brought a liberation like Aragorn had never known before. The hollow ache that had been gnawing deep inside him dissipated, replaced by a wonderful heat that burned like liquid fire in his veins. Aragorn wished the moment would last forever; but as all beautiful things, it passed too soon, and left a vivid memory that would stay in his mind for as long as he lived. 

Aragorn drew back almost reluctantly, the taste of Legolas's lips still lingering on his own.

Legolas's eyes were still closed, his mouth parted as if in a silent whisper of things too beautiful and fragile to be articulated. Then dark silver lashes fluttered open, revealing eyes that shone like stars at midnight, which were filled with disbelief and wonder and hope.

"Aragorn." Hearing his own name from Legolas's lips for the first time sent a warm tingle through Aragorn, awakening something within him so intense that it burned, burned terribly. He never imagined something that felt so perfect could hurt so badly.

Suddenly there were muffled voices from just outside the hallway. Aragorn cursed himself for a fool; the door was not locked. They wheeled apart, and Legolas swiftly moved a respectable distance away from Aragorn just as the doorknob turned, and in walked Boromir; no one else would have entered the steward's quarters without first knocking.

Aragorn quickly stepped forward, forcing a cordial smile onto his face. He tensed as he saw Boromir's gaze flicker over to Legolas; from the corner of Aragorn's eye he saw the elf standing aside, his posture graceful and unaffected. That was more than Aragorn could say for himself.

"I have given Legolas instructions regarding the visitors from Rohan," Aragorn spoke up. "He will be ready for the feast tonight."

Boromir's dark eyes remained on Legolas for a beat longer than necessary. Aragorn's heart lurched. _Could he have guessed? _The fear of Legolas's punishment was his only surpassing fear. He stole a glance in the elf's direction — Legolas was holding his master's look evenly, his expression wiped clean of emotion. 

Boromir finally broke his close scrutiny of the elf and looked back at his steward again.

"There is one more thing I would have him wear," Boromir said; he extended his hand, and in his palm something glinted, catching Aragorn's eye.

It was a silver headband. He took it from Boromir's outstretched hand. The edge was handcrafted with great skill, embellished with the carvings of leaves and flowers entwined in an unbroken vine all along the arc of the rim. Jewels, white and gold, were studded along the curlicues of the engraved vines, and the entire headband was like a circle of starlight, captured with mysterious craft.

"A silver headband upon the crown of the head has long been held as a symbol of pledged love," Boromir tilted the headband, and admired as it caught the golden light of day. "This one bears the craftsmanship of the Elves." He glanced up at Legolas, his mouth curling. "How very appropriate."

Legolas kept his silence, although Aragorn could see that the elf's body was drawn tense, his shoulders held straight, his head tilted at an angle that spoke of implicit defiance. There was a new fire in his eyes, reminiscent of the unbridled spirit that had blazed in them the first day he arrived in Minas Tirith; before darkness fell in many ways.

Boromir, either challenged by Legolas's silence or drawn by his effortless attraction, strode towards the elf. Dark eyes surveyed his property from head to foot; Legolas held his ground, a barely perceptible flinch shuddering through him as Boromir suddenly snatched his wrists, holding them up for scrutiny. The rope burns, only from the night before, stood out starkly against pale skin like scorched bracelets.

"Cover these up." Boromir's tone was filled with disgust; he dropped Legolas's wrists and turned to Aragorn. "I want him completely unmarked when he appears at the feast."

"Please." Legolas's soft voice from behind him made Boromir look back at the elf once again, surprised. Legolas's face was etched with a shadow of deep pain, and he kept his eyes downcast. "Please, let me be excused from the hall this evening."

Boromir looked startled by Legolas's imploration; then he moved so fast that, when Aragorn blinked, the next thing he saw was Legolas pushed up against the wall, his head jerked back from the pull of Boromir's right hand tangled in his hair. Instinctively Aragorn rushed forward, but forced himself not to drag Boromir off Legolas; that would reveal far too much.

"What did you say, slave?" he heard Boromir hiss, the cruel words punctuated by a vicious shake. 

Legolas, for his part, wisely remained silent; but his lack of reply seemed to anger Boromir even more. The fist in Legolas's hair tightened, and the elf winced; but he became still, because struggling only added to the painful pressure on his scalp. Aragorn drew a sharp intake of breath.

"You will do everything I want." Boromir's voice was now deadly soft. "Exactly the way I want you to." Legolas closed his eyes, and Boromir shoved him roughly against the wall one more time before releasing him. He turned on his heel, and cast Aragorn a dark look.

"Do not waste too much valuable time on the elf." Boromir strode toward the door, and tossed over his shoulder, "I want all the guards marshalled at the Gates for the welcome salute. Make sure you see to that promptly."

Legolas remained leaning against the wall, looking shaken; then his eyes fluttered open, and he watched the king depart from Aragorn's quarters. Gradually the colour flowed back into his face, together with an overwhelming sadness. Hope dimmed, and faded to darkness.

Aragorn met Legolas's gaze, before his eyes looked down at the jewelled headband he held in his hands. He felt sickened at the thought of his task ahead. He had to make Legolas wear this band upon his head as a symbol of _free choice_, when in truth the elf had none. Legolas had to behave as Boromir's lover despite the invisible chains he suffered, with nothing except the dire threat of punishment at Boromir's hands to impel him to do so.

Aragorn slowly walked towards Legolas, and only halted when they were standing very close. Legolas did not move away, only gazed at him, his eyes glistening.

"Believe me, Legolas," Aragorn said in a low voice, frayed with suppressed emotion. "More than anything else, I wish I did not have to make you do this."

Wordlessly Legolas bowed his head in acquiescence; with a heavy heart, Aragorn raised the headband, and slid it upon Legolas's crown. The silver band complemented the elf's fair blond hair beautifully, but Aragorn could not bear to look on it.

He stepped back, and the words left his mouth with an aching sadness: "I am sorry."

"Do not be." Legolas spoke quietly; he looked up, and his eyes shimmered with a rare light. "I would wear this for you, Aragorn."

Before Aragorn could respond to the elf's words or the deeper meanings they held, Legolas stepped forward and kissed him. 

Legolas's mouth tasted of perfection. Aragorn closed his eyes and let himself go, falling into the simple, sweet pleasure of this moment that should never have to end. Aragorn ran his fingers through Legolas's silky hair, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss; he felt Legolas's hands tighten on his shoulders. They kissed more urgently, as if they were desperately clinging to something they both knew would be taken from them.

When they finally melted apart, Aragorn's mouth was tingling with sweet fire, still too pure to be quenched by the bitterness and longing that was sure to follow. Legolas was gazing at him, his lips flushed from feverish kissing, his cheeks coloured with warmth.

"You have to go," Legolas said softly, although looking into his eyes Aragorn could see that the elf wanted him to do anything but that. He knew his own eyes reflected the same wistfulness, the same sense of... loss, even though nothing had been gained except the fleeting taste of what might have been.

Aragorn's voice was a whisper. "I know."

  
  


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